Imitation
by WistfulStar
Summary: When an incident took Iceland's life, Norway sought comfort in his own realm of daydream. Mentally unstable and at risk, he is now under the care of a Danish therapist, who desperately tries to show him the reality. But Norway isn't quite ready to let go.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: Hetalia not mine

* * *

**Prologue**

Rain.

The steady rhythm of the falling droplets was soothing, a familiar pattern that brought just a slight bit of console to one's unsettling spirit. The cemetery, a ghostly site that separated the living from the shadows of afterlife, only added to the sombre atmosphere. Its wooden fence rattled and buckled under the howling wind. Under the overcast sky, the smell of freshly dug-up dirt prickled uncomfortably at his nose. Sweden stood impassively in the pouring weather. And though his vision blurred by this heavy outpour of precipitation, he cannot help but stare ahead at the small figured man in front. Beside him, an anxious Finland trembled as he attempted to keep the three of them under the tiny black umbrella. But Sweden simply pushed his wife away.

_Plip, plop, plip, plop_

The cold was fogging up his glasses.

_Plip, plop, plip, plop_

He could feel a drop of wetness crawling down his back.

_Plip, plop, plip, plop_

His hands were beginning to numb, as he could no longer feel the cold water sliding down his fingertips.

"C'mon guys!" Finland begged and reached for his husband's hand. Sweden squeezed back but still he did not look at the pleading Finn.

"You're all going to catch a cold this way!" Finland yelled through the pouring rain. "We've been standing here for hours! Everybody's gone already. Let's go home!"

"Not goin' 'til he does." was Sweden's brief reply.

"Norway" the frustrated Finn turned desperately to their silent friend in front of them. Said friend who still hadn't moved since the service had concluded. Said friend who was going to get a very bad case of pneumonia if he didn't dry up soon. With a quiet sigh, Finland's hand hesitantly left his husband's to reach for the Norwegian. "Norway, c'mon, let's go!"

No answer.

Frustrated, Finland snapped. "Can you just listen to me?" With the amount of force not expected from a man his size, he pulled the blank-faced Norwegian towards him. The murky grey sky effortlessly concealed the Finn's miserable expression. His fingers clutched tightly at the taller man's arms and shook him violently. "Norway! I know you're upset, we all are! But you're stronger than this! Snap out of it!"

A loud crack of thunder and still no answer.

"Norway!" Finland let go of the tears he fought so hard to keep in. The warm salty droplets mixed rather perfectly with the cold harsh rain, each one tugging a painful string in Sweden's heart. "Norway…" The Finn slowly in defeat loosened his grip on the Norwegian's arms. He fell hard on his knees, muffling a loud sob in his hands. The umbrella, now on the soggy ground, fluttered helplessly in the howling wind.

"Fin," Sweden could no longer turn a blind eye to his wife's cries. He stepped forward and took the small Finn in his arms, cradling the blond against his chest. His eyes though, were focused diligently on Norway. "Where ya goin' to go now?"

Norway looked back at the Swede coldly, revealing nothing in his vacant cerulean eyes.

"Ya can stay w'th us 'f ya want." Sweden persisted. "We've an 'xtra room."

The Norwegian turned away, ignoring the offer. Instead, he waddled unsteadily forward to the fresh patch of overturned dirt in front of him. Expressive blue eyes trained on the newly carved gravestone placed not so long ago in the burial service. Without a word, he knelt down and traced his fingers around it, caressing it as if it was a face.

"Nor!" Sweden gently settled the teary Finn into a sitting position before he stood up, flashing an irate glare at the pale blond man by the grave. This was beginning to get ridiculous. "W're goin' home!" Lunging forward, he grabbed the Norwegian tightly by the arm and tried to pull him up. And though his strength left skids of angry red marks on the man's thin wrist, Norway managed to wriggle free.

_Plip, plop, plip, plop._

Finland stood up and wobbled shakily to the forgotten umbrella. With his fingers stiff and cold from the wet rain, he grasped the handle tightly and turned to the impassive Norwegian. Sweden stood his ground and watched his wife in curiosity.

"Norge," the Finn whispered as he lowered himself to be at eye level with the kneeling Norwegian. Traces of tears were still evident on his face as he held the small umbrella between them and offered a tentative smile. When the Norwegian did not reply, he gently took his hand; fingers stroked in disapproval at the angry marks Sweden left and whispered soothingly, as if he was offering comfort to a frightened child. "It's going to be alright, okay Nor? It's going to be alright. Let's go home."

Norway glared at him.

_ Plip, plop, plip, plop._

"Norge," Finland continued patiently. His voice, though quiet, resonated loud and clear in the deafening rain. "He's gone, Nor. Iceland's gone. Staying here will not bring him back."

The Norwegian slapped down harshly on the Finn's arm, knocking the umbrella out of his hands. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around his knees and looked up at the weeping sky, allowing the unforgiving raindrops to hit his face. Head shaking violently in denial, the thin-figured body shivered in the pitiless wind.

"Nor," Sweden stepped forward and placed his large blue coat over the smaller man's trembling shoulders. His voice cracked slightly as the sorrow thickened and welled up his throat. "Ice's de'd."

Norway continued to shake his head, utterly ignoring the Swede's words. The ghost of a wild-looking smile danced around his lips.

Finland pulled the shivering Norwegian in his arms. "Nor…" He held on tightly, disregarding any possible resistance from the latter man. With a pained smile he whispered, gentle words masked with the necessary façade of strength, "I'm sorry. But we've been here for hours. Ice's gone, dead, buried, and he's never coming back. You can't change that! So please," he whispered into Norway's shoulders.

For the first time in hours, Norway responded. He gently writhed out of the Finn's protective arms and stared at him, eyes tinted with confusion and innocent naïveté. "What do you mean?" he asked softly. Finland shivered, from the cold, but more from the terrifying emptiness in the Norwegian's raspy voice.

"What are you talking about Fin?" Norway laughed humourlessly, an expression he hardly ever displayed to the rest of the world. "Ice's right here."

And with that he gestured to the painfully vacant space near Finland's breaking heart.

**…**

_Plip, plop, plip, plop_


	2. One

A/N: Uh... actually not much to say...

Onto the story~

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**Chapter I**

"No, no, no, no Belarus!" Denmark cringed as his 'sweet' and 'innocent' looking patient snapped the paintbrush in half. "Stop! How many times did I tell you, control yourself. That's what this whole activity is about!"

"Painting is an unnecessary activity," the girl glared daggers at her frustrated psychiatrist. To further emphasise her displeasure, she continued to rip the pitiable sheet of paper into tiny miniscule shreds with her sharp claws-for-nails. "I do not have, and do not care to have the required patience."

And that's why you're psycho! Denmark sobbed internally, not daring enough to voice his remarks. "C'mon now," he comforted, putting a casual hand on Belarus's shoulders to execute a pat of encouragement. "I'm sure if you try hard enough, you can do it!"

"Touch me one more time and I will make sure you never see those fingers again!"

Denmark groaned. He must've done something really really terrible in his previous life to deserve such a mad and uncooperative patient.

Reluctantly, the Dane retracted his fingers, figuring that he should not underestimate the validity in Belarus's threat. He had only been working in this psychiatric ward for little more than a month and so far, he hated every minute of it. The staffs were all really nice and stuff, but he did not think he could last a second longer with his psycho patient. Said patient who, at the moment, was trying to take apart the poor, defenceless chair she was sitting on.

But as of the current economy, he should be glad he even had a job.

The International Asylum for the Mentally Insane, at first glance, resembled a prestigious residence. Fully equipped with all the latest technology and currently accepting patients from all over the globe, there was no surprise that it was considered by many as one of the world's most prominent facilities. The outer building, complete with high-end insulating glass windows and a grand gated entrance regularly attracted admiration from the passerby. Hidden from the outside was a beautiful garden, located conveniently in the center of the asylum. Filled with a variety of exotic vegetation, it is often used by staff members as a unique type of therapeutic treatment. Further inside the campus held the doctors' offices, where hundreds of the sick interact daily with their assigned psychiatrist in search for their lost sanity. It had only been pure luck did a no name like Denmark was offered a job to such an impressive place. And as much as he was grateful for it, the Dane still wished that his current patient would stop threatening to painfully rip his fingers out of their original sockets.

"Natalia," Denmark sighed, and carefully, making sure that his fingers were still intact, guided the aggressive Belarusian out of his much abused office. As they descended down the elevator, Denmark began his daily lecture, wishing for once that it will somehow sink in into that stubborn one-sided head of his patient's. "You need to start listening to others. If something does not go your way or if someone disagrees with you, then you will calmly reply them with words, I repeat, words, not knives." The elevator door slide open, and Denmark, offering an encouraging smile, gingerly held onto the girl's hand and led her outside in hopes that the sunny weather would somehow lessen the intensity of her violence. "Lithuania told me you tried to harass his patient again."

"I was not harassing Russia!" Belarus glowered. Despite the Dane's hopes, the sun's radiant rays made her look no less menacing. "I was simply speeding up the process of us becoming one together. It is only a matter of time before we are forever bonded by matrimony."

Denmark sighed. "I think that I've gone over this, oh I don't know, a billion times! Stop trying to marry him! Russia doesn't feel that way about you!"

"You are wrong!" the girl growled, making the Dane shiver as her sharp teeth bared and glistened in the sun. "He is misguided! He doesn't know what he wants. But I do," she stopped suddenly, looking for once like a normal teenage girl caught up in a beautiful daydream. "Me and him, we are destined to be together. Is it not obvious that we are perfect for each other?"

Oh it's obvious alright, obviously insane!

"How 'bout we stop talking about this and just sit down for a while," wishing desperately to discontinue the subject, Denmark pulled Belarus onto a bench seat in the middle of the garden. Perhaps some nice quiet time shall calm the girl, and possibly pry her away from her never-gonna-happen fantasy. Taking advantage of the pause, Denmark briefly in his mind reviewed his patient's identified sickness: erotomania, a delusional disorder in which the sufferer holds an unshakeable belief that another person is secretly in love with them. Belarus wasn't hard to diagnose, no, not at all. Getting her treated though, was a completely different story.

Natalia grumbled but obliged nevertheless. Her hospital gown fluttered in the warm summer wind. Despite her often-gruesome behaviours, Belarus rather enjoyed the outdoors. She likes it when the breeze flows through her long platinum-blond hair. For a while, they just sat there, with Denmark quietly marvelling the therapeutic effects nature had on patients.

As they were about to return to the building, something caught the corner of Denmark's speculating eye. He whirled around, almost tripping his own feet, and stared curiously at the front. Belarus, who also noticed the addition in company, followed his gaze.

Three people, led by the head psychiatrist Lithuania, entered the garden. At first, Denmark thought that they were simply some family members coming to see their sick relatives. However, as they drew closer, the Dane realised that it was much more than just a simple visit. The tallest of the trio, a bespectacled and stoic-looking man, fidgeted and was evidently uncomfortable at the thought of being in a mental asylum. Behind him followed a much shorter man, a concerned looking individual who was currently juggling between firing questions at Lithuania and softly whispering comforts to the third man at the back. But just before Denmark was able to examine the last man, Belarus interrupted his train of thought as she let out a deafening scream of delight and madly dashed towards a certain scarf-wearing individual presently coming out into the garden.

"Ah, Belarus!" Abandoning all possible distractions, Denmark chased after the insane girl. "Come back here! Stop harassing Russia! No, no, no, not his scarf! Belarus!"

In a desperate attempt to stop his passionately in love patient from strangling her romantic interest, Denmark raced after as quickly as he could. But despite the emergency at hand, he still could not suppress his unsatisfied curiosity at the third man. Out of the corner of his eyes, his gaze followed him, staring with utmost interest. A small golden hair clip caught his attention as it reflected under the bright July sun.

Said man suddenly stared back. Lovely blond hair wavering in the cool breeze framed his unhealthily thin face. For a fraction of the second their gaze met, Denmark could not help but feel a frightened flutter in the pit of his stomach.

There was nothing but emptiness in those striking cerulean eyes.

* * *

"Are you sure this is absolutely, positively, without-a-doubt, best for Norway?" a man with wide violet eyes asked, desperation and distrust leaking in his voice. "I don't know if letting him stay here is such a good idea. I mean, it's not like I'm doubting your medical skills or anything. It's just that I feel more comfortable letting him stay home. He's not _that_ bad. I mean he can take care of himself just fine, except that sometimes, you know, he will randomly talk to his dead brother. I'm sure it's just a phase. His brother was pretty dear to him and all. Him, Su-san, Norway, and I, we've been such good friends for so long and it's just terrible to lose a loved one. But I'm sure that if you give him enough time he'll turn right back to normal. Norge has never one to hold onto so much emotion. It just had been a very traumatizing thing. Is all of this really necessary? What if he doesn't eat enough, he's so skinny already! Who's gonna make sure that he sleeps well at night? Lately he's been getting all these nightmares! We're all extremely upset. I mean getting into a car accident is just about the worst way to die right? It's just that –"

"Fin," Sweden placed a restraining hand on the Finn's shoulder. "Y'er blabbin' aga'n."

"Oh sorry," Finland give a grim apologetic smile to Lithuania. "I tend to talk a lot when I'm anxious or upset. It's not that I like to listen to myself talk or anything. It's just that sometimes, it's easier to just talk and fill up the empty space you know. And you can ignore half the things I say 'cause most of the time, they're not really that important. I mean, I didn't say don't listen to me, but you –"

"Fin."

"I did it again didn't I?"

Lithuania smiled kindly. "I fully understand your concerns, Mr. Vainamoinen." He paced around his large, spacious office. A sad smile surfaced onto his face as he realised that his three guests stood in wary proximity to one another, not yet sure to break their own bubble of trust. With a thoughtful expression, he walked toward the worried Finn and stared at him with absolute kindness in his eyes. "But I guarantee that we will do absolutely all we can for Norway. I realise you are nervous and unsure about this decision; many of our patients' families at first had felt the same. But you can be assured that it is the right one. If Norway is not immediately cared for with the right expertise and treatment, there will most likely be far graver consequences." He paused, and cast a sympathetic glance at the said Norwegian, who, at the moment, was busily distracted by the painting of 'The Scream' mounted on the office wall. "How long had he been seeing things?"

Finland opened his mouth to answer, but Sweden was faster. "Three m'nths."

"It first started after the burial service." Finland added, putting in his effort to help. "He was very quiet in the beginning and wouldn't talk to us but we just thought he was upset, I mean we all were pretty upset. Then, after the service had ended, he got really really quiet and wouldn't leave. It was raining pretty badly that day so I begged him to come home with us but he just ignored me. Then, when I tried to comfort him, he turned to me and said 'Ice's right here'. Su-san and I both thought that Norway was simply too shocked to realise what was going on so we just dragged him home, hoping that maybe some time will clear his head. But that night, he threw a huge fit over dinner because we didn't set the plates for Iceland. And after that, it just got worse and worse. He would talk to blank air like it was Ice and leave the TV on claiming that Ice was watching it. We just…" Finland's voice choked on the words. "We don't know what to do anymore." He kept his eyes focused on the lovely bamboo flooring, unable to face the doctor as if all the madness was somehow his fault.

Lithuania kindly took the Finn's hands, eyes filled with compassion and understanding. "You've made the right choice coming to us. I am sure that with some time, Norway will return to his normal self. I will personally see him to a skilled psychiatrist, one that is specialised in delusional disorders. Please do not worry. He will be in great hands."

"Can we v'sit 'im?" Sweden, who stood silently for all this time, suddenly spoke.

"Yes of course," Lithuania nodded, content to finally offer some positive answer. "We do familial visits every other week and you will get a thorough report every month by Norway's personal doctor covering both the details of the treatment and his recuperation process." The smiling psychiatrist walked toward the Norwegian and squeezed his shoulders reassuringly.

Without even a mere glance, Norway shrugged him off. "Don't touch me."

Finland whispered an awkward apology to Lithuania, who in turn nodded his head in full understanding. "It's alright," he replied. "It is only natural that he feels uncomfortable being touched by a stranger. Many of our other patients feel the same."

Sweden glowered slightly, but not much can be perceived from his usually stoic face. He did not like the idea of Norway being referred to and categorised with those who were mentally cracked and astray from reality. At risk or not, Norway was still their friend, and despite his strange behaviours, Sweden felt that this whole thing was rather unnecessary. But Finland had insisted, and the Swede never doubted his wife.

"Is everything set up already?" Lithuania, sensing Sweden's unease, quickly changed the topic. "The caretakers, they've taken Norway's stuff to his room right?"

"Yes, thank you, they were very efficient."

"Good," Lithuania smiled. His white lab coat fluttered a little as he paced to his desk and took out a paper-bloated binder. Even from the distance, Sweden could see that it was filled with confidential patient files. Lithuania furrowed his eyebrows in concentration and made some quick notes on an almost blank sheet of paper, presumably Norway's file, before looking up again. "Would you like to meet the doctor now, or would you rather wait until we tour this place first?"

"D'ctor."

"Alright then" Toris nodded. He picked up an intercom phone mounted on his desk and began to dial furiously. A brief silence later, his voice filled the room. "Yes, can you ask the new doctor to come to my office for a second … No, no, not that one, the Danish one …Yes, yes, Denmark… What? What happened to Russia? … My goodness! Can you take over for a second? … Alright, alright, thank you… Yes… alright thank you…"

Lithuania gently put the phone back into place and turned a sheepish grin to the anxious-looking couple. "Um, well" he stammered awkwardly, "an incident had happened with one of our patients, but the doctor I assigned for Mr. Norway should be on his way now. Rest assured, Dr. Denmark is a psychiatric expert specialised in the fields of delusional disorders. Personality and skills wise, I feel that he is perfect for Norway's condition."

Finland looked with hopes in his eyes, something Lithuania had already became immune to as he had seen enough hope lingering in the eyes of his patients, only to have it shatter into a million different pieces. "Would he cure Norge?" the Finn asked, wishful desperation shook his voice.

Of course, Lithuania wanted to say, most certainly. But nothing is certain and nothing hurts more than crushed hope. "I'm sorry, you know I don't have an answer to that," his face was grim but sensibly sombre. "We will try our best for him. 90% of our patients improve over long periods of treatment you know."

"Thank you," Finland whispered as he looked away. "I appreciate your honesty."

There was a brief awkward silence. Norway sill had not yet given any input to this forced, uncomfortable conversation. Sweden stared the Norwegian in pained speculation, and without turning away, he asked "'Ow long w'll it tak'?"

Lithuania shook his head. "It's different for every patient as each is unique in their own way of mental stability. For some, it could be two months, for others, it could be…" he stopped all of a sudden, unsure of whether he should continue. A look from Sweden urged him on, and Lithuania, as quietly as he could, uttered out the unwanted truth. "For others, it could be… it could be never." His voice was light and airy, as if to lift the heavy weight in the severity of his words.

Finland's eyes widened. A muffled yelp of surprise and desperation escaped his lips. He turned to look at Norway, fingers reached out in unease to caress his friend's face. "Never?" he repeated, dumbfound. Frowning at the sudden touch, Norway brushed those fingers away.

The room sat in a disturbing silence. Lithuania watched with concern as Sweden wrapped his long protective arms around his wife, who in turn smiled appreciatively at the attempted comfort.

For a brief second, all was calm. And then –

"You wanted to see me Doc?" the door suddenly flew open in a loud disrupting bang. In walked a flailing Dane, arms moving wildly in displeasure. "Sorry I'm late. But man, do you have any idea how long it took me to get that crazy Belarusian on some sedatives? There really should be like a wall between her and Russia or something. Look, she even bit me!" Rolling up the sleeve of his lab coat, Denmark showed off in an undignified huff the ugly bruise of what was clear to be teeth marks. "Not cool, man, not cool at all!"

Lithuania slapped his forehead. "Dr. Denmark," he said pleadingly, voice strained. "Please do not be so vocal. We have guests."

"Wha-" the Dane whirled around, only to found himself face to face with a glaring, and may he add, rather intimidating Swede. "Oh, sorry, sorry, um, heh, heh," Laughing nervously, he inched himself backwards in slow cautious steps. "Pardon my, um, intrusion."

"Tis the d'ctor?"

"Yes um," Lithuania stepped forward, palms open in an earnest desperation to save face for the Dane. "Despite his, uh, appearance, Dr. Denmark is actually a psychiatric expert specialised in mental diseases, with several degrees in psychological sicknesses and counselling actually. Brilliant, really, well most of the time anyways. He's just a little, uh agitated today because of the behaviour of his current patient Belarus. But I guarantee there is no doubt on my mind that he is the best man for Mr. Norway's present conditions."

As Denmark quickly scanned over the guests, a sudden realisation dawned on him. They were the same group he seen earlier in the garden with Belarus. A curious glance flung to the back where Norway was standing. From the close proximity, Denmark easily recognised him as the man with the cold blue eyes. "Yes, yes" Looking as professional as he could, Denmark quickly nodded, patting down his large white lab coat. "I am sure that within time, you will realise that expertise-wise, I am best for Nor-, wait what?" As the words leaving his mouth finally reached his brain, Denmark turned furiously around, raising a questioning eyebrow toward Lithuania. "I'm what?"

The Head psychiatrist nodded nervously. "Well, that's why I've called you here, Doctor, to inform you that from now on, you shall be Norway's personal psychiatrist."

"Woah, there Doc, can I speak to you privately?" Under both Finland and Sweden's speculating eye, Denmark quickly dragged Lithuania into a corner. A hand was raised to muffle their voices, "When'd you sign me up for this?"

"Um just now," Lithuania whispered, confused by the disapproval in the Dane's voice. "You are specialised in schizophrenia and delusional disorders. Mr. Norway is perfect. And didn't you always complained about Ms. Belarus being too violent and loud? Of course, if you have too much on your plate," Blushing suddenly, he stammered, "I can take Ms. Belarus."

Denmark looked surprised, but just for a slight second, as a look of smugness and understanding quickly slipped into his expression. Grinning ear to ear, he laughed, "Ahh, I see what you've done there Doc, I see what you've done there. Don't worry, your secret's safe with me. I'll take this Norway guy and you can have that psycho girl all to yourself."

As the two engaged in their quiet banter, Sweden watched carefully. He cannot help but feel a little uncertain about this facility. With the way the two doctors were acting now, surely they cannot be trusted. Norway was their friend since a long time, close enough even to be brothers. To fully place Norge's wellbeing into the hands of complete strangers, Sweden felt more than reluctant.

With unexpected suddenness, Denmark turned away from his little 'private' conversation and instead laid his eyes on Norway. Ignoring a flustered Lithuanian protesting behind him, he marched right up to the Norwegian and tilted upwards his chin to force eye contact between the two of them. "Hello there," he smirked, hoping that his natural charm and charisma would break Norway's unfazed expression, "you're one lucky person because guess what, I just agreed to be your personal psychiatrist for your stay here." Moving dangerously closer to the Norwegian's face, he declared dramatically. "Together, we're going to find and shatter all your fears and insecurities, and therefore establishing a beautiful friendship in which you shall be grateful for in all of eternity."

Expecting the Norwegian to freak out, Sweden quickly moved toward him in an attempt to yank the Dane away. But to his, and everyone else's, surprise, Norway did not pull away or even flinch from the physical contact. Instead he spoke, a voice full of contempt and defiance that took Denmark completely off guard.

"You're an idiot."

And Sweden thought that it was just about the most rational thing he had heard from the Norwegian in months.


	3. Two

A/N: Man, it has been quite a while since I updated. Sorry bout tat, life has been rather mean to me and my workload is skyrocketing... Anyways, enjoy~, there's a lot of scene switches in this one :)

Oh, and thank you all so much for all the lovely reviews. If you have any criticisms or suggestions, feel free to message me, I won't bite ;)

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**Chapter II**

Denmark gestured for Norway to follow him. And Norway did, quietly and obediently without a single word. So Denmark waited, not wanting to be the first one to break the ice.

The two walked down the plainly-washed infirmary halls, passing by several doctors with their patients. Each of them shot both cautious and curious glances toward the asylum's newest guest.

Moments passed and the Norwegian still remained silent.

Two cute volunteer nurses scurried by, each giggled and blushed in embarrassment as they waved to the rather handsome Danish psychiatrist. Denmark smiled and waved back, but only half-heartedly, as his entire focus was centered on Norway.

The man was walking dutifully beside the Dane, careless of where he was being led to. His eyes drifted around, slowly taking in the scenery surrounding him. Every so often, there became some slight fluttering of eyelids, and even a not-so-experienced Denmark knew that the Norwegian was not really looking at the bare white walls of the hallway, but something else too deep and far buried within his mind.

The two stopped in front of the door to the shower stalls. "You should clean yourself first," Denmark commented as he pushed open the entrance. "Then after we'll have a little chat, so I'll know which ward to place you in."

Norway nodded, but made no stir to move. Instead he looked up at the nervous psychiatrist, speculating.

Denmark understood the unvoiced question. "Don't worry," he laughed, the sound came out much more anxious and edgy than his original intention. "I'm not going to go in with you. It's against the protocols but hey, what are the funs of having rules if you can't break them, right?" Another strained chuckle. "Besides," he added, "everyone deserves a little privacy."

A slight shrug of the shoulders was Norway's sole response. Without so much as another glance at the Dane, he walked, a little unsteadily, into the shower rooms.

Then the door slammed, right into the psychiatrist's face. And even someone as clueless as Denmark couldn't help but feel a little bit rejected.

* * *

The temperature was turned to the hottest and the water burnt his skin. But Norway ignored it. In fact, he enjoyed the heat and the steady increase of mist surrounding him. Lost within a blurry sea of water vapour, hallucinations became much easier to fabricate.

The intense temperature had no sympathy for his sensitive skin.

Unconscious of the pain, Norway stood in silence. Beyond him, he sees a meadow of lush green grass. The sun loomed just behind his back, illuminating his silvery-blond strands as they danced in the gentle wind. He was no longer in a shower stall without his clothes; he was in a dream, a beautiful private dream where only he can predict what was happening.

Iceland stood in the middle of that lush green field.

Norway walked to him, or at least tried to walk to him. But every time he moved closer, the distance between the two of them increased. Like a spiral of never-ending stairs, Norway could only get closer but never quite reach his objective. The stairs ended at infinity. And Norway didn't know where that was.

He opened his mouth to speak, but found that he had lost his voice. Behind him, a thunderous roar deafened his ears.

Norway shook violently. He knew that he was falling.

Before the vicious transition between the realms of delirium to the world of reality hit, the Norwegian, as a final attempt of defiance, looked up at his brother.

Iceland was gone.

And Norway fell, right into the cold and unforgiving tiles of the washroom floor.

* * *

The way back home from the asylum felt even more intense.

The road stretched ahead, an almost endless extent of traffic lights, cars, and blurry trees as the vehicle drove by the passing. Sweden quietly navigated the steering wheel, not bothering to fill up the empty silence. Usually his wife was the one who supplied the talking but it seemed like today, even Finland decided to put a leash on his tongue.

Sweden stepped gently on the brake pedal. The car decreased in speed, slowly coming to a complete halt. The temporary red light gave Sweden a chance to flash a glance at Finland. The small-framed man was leaning into the car seat, hands clutching tightly at his seat belt. Sweden comprehended the anxiety and reached over to grab his wife's hand. The red light turned green again but now the Swede only had one hand on the steering wheel, for the other was holding the Finn's in a tight but comforting grasp.

Finland stirred out of his daydream. His troubled eyes glanced over to his stoic husband. Letting out an appreciative sigh, he smiled and entwined his fingers into the Swede's, feeling the warmth of that big strong hand.

"Thank you," the Finn murmured, unspoken worry rang loud and clear in the silent car.

"E'll be fine," was Sweden's reply. "We did the r'ght th'ng."

* * *

Denmark sat restlessly in his office, waiting for Norway to finish his shower. In his head, he attempted, but too anxious to actually put in some decent effort, to piece together some questions for his interview later with Norway. The general ones aside, there were some things that Denmark wanted to ask about but couldn't just find the right words to voice them. He couldn't just come out and say 'So, is it true that the death of your brother made you crazy?' No, he had to be cautious, or else there was no way that someone like Norway would open up to him. He had to be subtle, carefully guiding the Norwegian through the tender subject and gather the information he needed from there. Nodding at his own plan, the Dane quickly jotted down some words on his notepad.

Now, all he had to do was to wait.

Resting his head in one hand while mindless twirling the pen with the other, Denmark stared into the replication painting of 'The Mona Lisa' across the room. The lovely woman greeted him back, and the Dane could not help but feel just a little bit frustrated at the unexplainable mystery behind her gorgeous smile.

* * *

A fidgeting nurse brought a clean and showered Norway back to the office.

_It's too cold. _

Shivering as he brushed his still-damp side bangs away from his face, Norway sat tamely on his assigned chair across Denmark. The goose bumps on his arms gave enough evidence to the chill. Regardless of the steady emission of hot air from the vents, the temperature still felt like it was below zero degrees.

Despite his usual oblivious character, Denmark caught the Norwegian's trembling. Worried, he stood up from his chair and fetched a blanket from the cupboard. He had to make sure that his patient was in top shape before the interview can begin. Gently, he wrapped the thick sheet around Norway, fingers mindlessly traced around his cold skin.

"Better?" he asked.

Unappreciative to the gesture, Norway simply shrugged it off. "Give it to Iceland," he murmured.

Denmark froze, but only for a fraction of a second. His momentary surprise vanishing without a trace as the calm, settling composure of a trained doctor took over. "Alright then," he tossed the blanket aside and sat back down with his notepad, looking aberrantly serious for once. "So," he gestured to the small blond man shivering across him, "Is there anything you would like to tell me?"

Norway stared ahead, his eyes scrutinising. The current scenery resembled so much like a typical doctor-patient interview it was almost laughable. There was nothing in front of him but a small rectangular table. Across was an annoying Dane sporting a terribly strained expression. Modestly decorated, the entire office was aimed to mimic a typical living room. How ironic that they restrict everything you do yet still try to make everything look so much like home.

"Can you please answer my question?"

The Norwegian folded his arms.

Sighing, the Dane ran a hand through his crazy wild hair, the same hair that got him reactions from winks by curvy red-lipped ladies to disapproval by balding uptight men. "Humour me will you?" he whispered as he closed his eyes. "I don't want to do this just as much as you don't want to do it. Interviewing you today means a five hundred page report tonight. But I need to do this to know where you're at in the present moment." Denmark closed his notepad and sat up straighter, looking directly into the Norwegian's disdainful blue eyes. "How about we just talk? I won't write down anything. It'll just be like having dinner with your friends except without the dinner part."

Norway bit his lips and looked away.

Denmark clapped his hands enthusiastically in a desperate attempt to capture Norway's attention. "Okay, let's start with something easy, how was your shower?"

"Fine."

"More than one word please Nor."

"Pretty fine."

Denmark dug his nails into the bottom of his chair.

_It's alright Den_, he comforted himself, _you've dealt with stubborn people before. Just look at Belarus, this guy can't be worse than that right, I mean sure a rock can probably make better conversations than him but at least he hasn't tried to do anything violent yet…_

As if on cue, Norway suddenly stood up. Within his icy cold eyes depicted the same amount of sympathy as a hawk about to gobble down its prey.

"Can I go now?" the hawk tapped his foot in irritation, displeasure ringing loudly in his voice.

Used to looking down rather than up and uncomfortable by the sudden lapse in height, Denmark stood up from his chair as well. "Sit down!" he commanded, slightly agitated by their lack of progress. "You can go when you actually tell me what I need to know."

An estranged laugh left the Norwegian's thin lips. "I'm crazy doctor," he mocked. "What can you possibly learn from me?"

"There's a lot of things I can learn from you," Straightening his lab coat, Denmark kicked his chair back and walked around the table until he stood in about three inch proximity to his patient. Slowly with hesitation, he took Norway's hand and held it tightly in his own, caressing the slightly rough and calloused fingertips. Norway flinched.

"I have seen hundreds of patients in my lifetime," Denmark began. "From every one of them, I managed to discover something that I did not know before." He laughed lightly and, seeing no reaction from his patient, continued to talk. "People learn from people, that's what everything is about."

"Philosophical much, doctor?" Norway snickered humourlessly, wringing his hand away from the Dane.

Denmark ignored the obnoxious comment. "You're terribly sick, and I'm trying to help you. We've only known each other for not even five hours and already you're being stubborn as hell. Whether you like it or not, you're pretty much stuck here until I say you can go home. I know this whole thing is probably a big mess for you but that's why you're here, to make it all better. In order to do that though, you have to start talking to me. So you can get better!"

"What if I don't want to get better?" Norway asked suddenly, gazing into the eye of his psychiatrist. "What if I like being sick? What are you going to do then?"

Denmark waved his arms around in frustration. Was he serious? "What do you mean you like being sick? How can you make such a selfish statement? Look at your friends, Sweden and Finland, they worked hard to give you help, yet you always shut them out. Why are you so keen on pushing everybody away?"

"I want Ice." The sudden declaration shook the doctor from his own chattering. Too preoccupied with his own anger and aggravation, Denmark did not realize the withdrawal from Norway. The latter had gone very pale and very tense during the Dane's lecture; his eyes now looked lost and wary.

"Pardon me?"

"I don't want to listen to them anymore," the Norwegian repeated curtly. "I want to see Iceland."

Oh, _oh_.

* * *

Norway can hear voices all around. Some are loud, and some are quiet. Some are rude, and some are gentle. Normally, something like this wouldn't be of any importance to him. But this time, among the sea of chatters, Norway could hear Iceland.

The only problem was, Norway couldn't see.

It was as if somebody had casted a blindfold onto the world. For all that had greeted his eyes was darkness. One moment, he was at the office, mildly irritated by the annoyingly talkative Danish psychiatrist. Another minute, he was gone, lost in a lightless and colourless planet.

The chatters were getting louder, a million different voices buzzed at the Norwegian's inner eardrums. Frustrated and slightly afraid, Norway bit his lips. "I want Ice."

"Pardon me?" the psychiatrist sounded so far away, only the echo of his reply reached Norway.

"I don't want to listen to them anymore," the Norwegian answered, gesturing to the steady amplification in volume of the voices surrounding him. "I want to see Iceland."

"I'm afraid you cannot do that." Again the distant echo of the psychiatrist. There was something more after that but Norway couldn't hear him over the loud cackling of a voice above him.

_"Lookiedy-look, that's one more thing you can't do. Next thing you know, you won't be able to see the dead." _

"You're wrong!" Norway snapped loudly, thrashing his arms around in an attempt to stop the taunting voice. "Ice's not dead. I can hear him."

Terribly confused on why everyone simply refused to admit the existence of his brother, he clutched his hands tightly into two balled fists. Shaking all over, Norway could feel a tremendous pressure compressing upon him, forcing him down into a pit of darkness. The border between what's real and what's not blurred ever so slightly. In the midst of the confusion, unconscious to his own mind, he began to lash out violently, smashing down nearby objects.

For the last three months ever since that rainy day, the same thing had been happening. First a taunting voice, and then an unbearable pain shooting at his heart. Soon enough, the Norwegian found himself bracing for the familiar attack. He understood that in order to deal with them, he had to entirely direct his focus on something else.

Norway bit his tongue, hard, until sticky blood started to drip down his throat. The pain was strong enough to keep him focused on nothing else but the throbbing ache. Submerged in his temporary escape, Norway managed to fend off once again against the cruel fact of his brother's death.

* * *

As a mental health psychiatrist, Denmark had faced many rather startling situations in his work life. The human mind was a strange thing. Some of the worst patients he had seen behaved perfectly normal around others. It wasn't until you observe them long enough could you actually see the insanity behind their well-crafted masks.

Norway was one of those people.

In truth, the Norwegian's behaviours up until now, reflected a completely normal individual. With exceptions to the cold exterior, all of his actions gave evidence to an intelligent and collected person. Denmark could not perceive why, at first, that someone seemingly fine was put into his care. But now though, he understood.

"You're wrong! Ice's not dead. I can hear him."

The sudden outburst snapped the Dane out of his muses. Acting with incredible speed, the Dane, with one hand, grabbed the Norwegian's thrashing wrists and kept them still so Norway could not do any more harm, both to himself and to everything else surrounding him. The other hand snaked around his waist and pulled him into a tight embrace. Whispering calming words of nothing into his patient's ears, Denmark quickly pushed the small red button on the wall, set up especially for purposes just like this one.

A team of nurses arrived in less than a minute, shoving the Dane out of the way. The stumbling psychiatrist watched in almost a trance-like stupor as a syringe of sedatives entered the Norwegian's veins. The thrashing stopped within a moment, and Norway, now unsteady on his feet, was shaking ever so slightly.

One of the nurses walked over to him and put a comforting hand on his shoulders. "We'll take it from here," she said and motioned for the others to leave. "He'll probably be out for quite a while. If you need to have more tests done on him, just ring up the head nurse in Ward C."

"Ward C?" Denmark asked, perplexed. Usually, it was the psychiatrist who got to finalise which ward the patient would be placed in. "When was that decided?"

"Oh I'm sorry," the nurse took a step back and flushed. "It's just that this new patient reacted so violently to a simple entrance interview, I just assumed –"

"No, it's alright." Denmark waved in reassurance. "Norway is actually quite in need of some help. Ward C is my intention as well."

Looking visibly relaxed, the nurse breathed out a sigh of relief. "That's good." She smiled. "I shall take him to his room then. It's almost time for dinner anyways."

"Yes," Denmark nodded, turning his head away in dismissal. "Thank you for all your help."

The nurses left the room quietly; two of them had each of the Norwegian's arms swung across their shoulders. Denmark watched with slight helplessness as they took his patient away. He shouldn't be feeling like this. It wasn't his fault that Norway had a sudden attack. Nevertheless, the lack of progress of their interview left the Dane very much frustrated, disappointed even. Sighing, Denmark began to gather up the scattered papers, mentally calculating the number of hours he would have to stay up tonight writing reports. Norway's symptoms pointed to a pretty solid direction and Denmark thought he had a rough idea of what exactly his patient was suffering from.

It was going to be a long night.


	4. Three

_A/N: First of all, I'M SORRY I DIED! I was so busy with final assessment tasks and exams and insert a billion other excuses here that I just didn't have the time. _

_No actually, it was mostly because I was being a lazy ass. I'M SORRY!_

_Anywho, now that it's summer, I will have much more time to write! So I promise that next update is going to be faster. PROMISE_

_Okay, enough useless rambling, onward!_

* * *

**Chapter III**

Denmark could not remember how many cups of coffee he drank. He had lost count after eighteen. The thick, creamy substance no longer held a meaning for him. It was just there, as with the dim light of the moon shining through the curtains and the ugly yellow lamp by his bedside.

Just a few more sentences, he told himself. Just a few more then it's off to bed. Never once did the clanking sound of the keyboard sounded so much like a lullaby.

"The patient had displayed such courses of action in which gave reasonable ground for paranoid-type schizophrenia, broadly defined by medical scholars as where delusions and hallucinations are present while thought disorders…" he muttered, lips in sync with the words as they appear on his computer screen.

The bitter taste of coffee in his mouth reminded Denmark just how much he hated writing reports.

A few more sentences, he repeated persistently, just a few more sentences.

The screen in front of him began to blur, wavering ever so slightly in the Dane's tired vision. Soon, his fingers were simply moving, as his mind was too asleep to take note of what he was actually writing. The eye lids he had fought so long and hard to keep open started to close. And despite the Dane's best attempts, he slowly began to doze off into a wild restless sleep.

His fingers were still slowly moving however, as they were too caught up in the typing motion. Transposing his inner subconscious, only one word continued to appear on the screen as Denmark snored his way into his dream.

Norway

* * *

Norway clutched tightly his blankets, trying very hard to get used to the foreign bed. But as far as he was concerned, nothing was working. The sheets were too stiff, the pillow too soft, the scent too mechanical, and the room too silent.

He wanted to go home.

_You have no home_. The voice in his head that had tormented him since the afternoon reared its ugly head once again. This time though, Norway could not find a reason to contradict the accusation. He had a house, but that was just a physical structure. There was no emotional attachment to the place.

"This is my home now," he mused. The voice laughed. But Norway tuned it out. Instead, he focused on the footsteps in the hallway, just outside his door. The night-shift doctors were patrolling, checking up on everyone and making sure everything was in its orderly place.

A nurse peeked into his room, her face scrutinising. Norway kept very still and pretended to be asleep. After a few very tense seconds, the nurse smiled and gently shut the door.

Norway gloried at his little triumph. Insignificant, but it showed nevertheless that he still had control of what he did want or didn't want to do. It was comforting, especially when he was placed in a strange and unfamiliar environment.

Feeling slightly daring, Norway slowly got up and rolled out of bed. The door to his room was locked from the outside. He stared at it for a brief moment before reaching towards his hair and took down a small pin. The little golden cross glimmered in the darkness. Without any hesitation, the Norwegian stuck the sharp end of the pin inside the key hole and turned with experience fluency. The door opened with a soft click and a faint smirk of satisfaction dawned on his lips.

The hallways were empty. It became obvious that the night patrol doctors had left the premises and went somewhere else. It was the perfect opportunity for Norway to do some exploring. In the quietest way he could manage, he crept down the dormitory halls.

As his room was located in the far end corners of Ward C, it took about five minutes to reach the closest staircase. Norway paused for a brief second to listen for any incoming staffs but his ears detected nothing. Pleased yet still cautious, the Norwegian patient stepped into the stairwell.

He had no intention of running away from the hospital. No, he was smart enough to realise the stupidity of that plan. It would only take a day, not even, half a day, for someone to catch him and bring him back. And once he's back, he would almost be guaranteed maximum security. This wasn't an attempt at fleeing. This was an attempt to be in control and doing what he wanted to do. After all, he could use a little fresh air.

Norway decided to go up the staircase.

He had known from the young nurse (Joyce, he thinks that was her name) who had guided him around the residential building that the prominent asylum was a structure of six floors. The first floor was the grand entrance, where the visitors came to sign in and see their loved ones. From the second floor up were the patient's dormitories, each level illustrated the severity of the patient's sickness. The placement started at Ward A, the second floor, where the patients were decided to be the most 'sane'. Norway was placed in Ward C, the fourth floor. The most dangerous and violent patients were placed in Ward E, the sixth and highest floor of the building.

Three flights of stairs later, and Norway found himself in front of the door to the roof. The entrance was suspiciously ajar, as almost every single door in the asylum had a lock on it. Looking around to make sure that none of the staff was tailing him, Norway stepped outside onto the rooftop.

It was a rather warm night. From this height, Norway can hear the faint engine sounds of cars well beyond the asylum's walls. Norway estimated that it was just about midnight. It was dark, but still light enough to make out a shadowy figure standing by the railings. As the Norwegian stepped closer, he could faintly see that it was not a medical staff, as the man was wearing the same pale blue hospital gown as he was.

"No, it's alright Mr. Fairy, I don't mind coming out this late. To be honest with you, I am quite glad you called to me." The man spoke with a well distinguished British accent. "After all that today, I really do need this fresh air."

The seriousness of his tone in the insanity made Norway unconsciously let out a laugh. The sound sounded too loud and foreign in the silent night. The man whirled around from his place at the railings and stared wide-eyed at his unexpected visitor.

"Who are you?" he asked, voice ringing with suspicion.

Norway did not reply. Instead, he stepped forward and joined the Brit at the edge of the building. A gush of cool breeze blew at his face as he leaned forward against the railings to look down. The height was quite forbidding, and its effect even more enhanced in the faint moonlight. "Who were you talking to?" he asked quietly.

The man stepped away from Norway. His eyes narrowed, "What's it to you?"

Norway shrugged, "Just curious." He strained his eyes in an attempt to look through the darkness and beyond the asylum walls. From this distance, he could just barely make out where the fences bordering the hospital ended. The patient residential building faced eastward, away from the main entrance. The back grounds were not as fancy as the front one, simply consisted of a small parking lot and a whole lot of empty space.

Silence fell between the two. The Brit seemed to have relaxed his guard and busily occupied himself with what he was doing before. Norway took the time to examine his features. The man's face was unremarkable, nothing out of the ordinary except for the huge caterpillar-like eyebrows. He was only slightly taller than the Norwegian himself, and rather thin in frame. Despite his scowl, his emerald green eyes seemed to reflect in intelligence and maturity.

Nobody seemed to talk for a while after but Norway didn't mind. The silence was comforting, it gave him the room to think and focus. Never a man of many words, he didn't feel the need to start a conversation. Unfortunately, the eyebrow man, as what the Norwegian had decided to call him, did not feel the same way.

"Hey," the man began, breaking the comforting peace. "Sorry for the attitude before. It's just that nobody really comes out here to the roof, especially at this hour, so you caught me off guard." He held out his hand, "I'm Arthur by the way, or England."

Norway stared at his outstretched hand with a blank expression on his face. He didn't want to touch anyone. "Norge," he replied, but made no other move. England let his arm drop awkwardly, unaware of what to do next.

"So who were you talking to a few moments ago?" Norway repeated his question from before.

"Just one of my friends," England laughed bitterly and turned back to look at the sky. "The very reason I'm in this bloody damn place. You see," he gestured to Norway, "some people don't see the things I see and we live in a society that judges based on a biased definition of normal. Normal people cannot see fairies so now, I'm considered insane." A brief pause. "Just because they can't see them," he muttered softly, "doesn't mean they don't exist."

Norway nodded but made no other movement. Seeing no verbal response, England continued. "So what'd you do that landed you here? You seem ordinary enough."

"You're wrong." A sarcastic chuckle. "I'm actually insane."

"Reason?"

"I see my brother."

"And?"

"He's dead."

"Ah," England nodded in understanding. "And which ward did they place you in because of that?"

Norway stared into the man's warm green eyes before dropping his gaze back to the darkening night. He felt no reason to answer but decided to comply nevertheless. "Ward C."

"Fourth floor huh," The Brit smiled. "Would that be the reason why I have never seen you before?"

"Today's my first day."

"Oh," England sounded surprised at the answer. "Then how did you manage to get yourself up here on the roof? Do they not lock the doors of all newcomers?"

The Norwegian shrugged. "Wasn't hard to pick."

"Impressive," a large grin broke out on the Brit's face. "I like your way of thinking."

"Some rules are made to be broken," Norway commented quietly. The saying reminded him of the afternoon. Wasn't that what the Danish psychiatrist had also said before sending him off to the shower alone? The annoying grin of the doctor slowly crawled its way into the Norwegian's thoughts, leaving him with slight agitation. Why did he suddenly think of the Dane, Norway did not know. What he did know was that he suddenly couldn't seem to shake the man out of his head. The fact irritated him slightly, so he simply stood there with a small frown on his face.

"So who's your personal psychiatrist?" England asked. Norway gritted his teeth as the conversation had descended into the very same territory he had wished to avoid. He didn't want to talk about Denmark; he didn't want to talk about anything. The whole day had gone by in a pace that was way too fast for the Norwegian and the annoying man beside him just can't seem to stop firing the questions. The little rebellious streak he had about half an hour ago began to die down as the medications took control. Now, his bed seemed to be a much more inviting place. Without a word, he left his place at the railings and began to walk back to the door leading to the stairs.

The Brit appeared to be quite surprised at his visitor's sudden departure. "Hey, where are you going?"

"Back," was the sole reply. And the only noise heard afterwards were the sounds of footsteps echoing in the staircase.

England looked with a curious smile on his face. "This should be interesting."

* * *

Denmark awoke naturally. No annoying alarm-clocks, no heart-wrenching fears from nightmares, no nothing. Just the simple opening of eyes as the light of dawn leaked through his curtains, alerting him to what was to be a brand new day.

Groggy still with the remnants of sleep, he rubbed his eyes and stretched. For a moment, he just stayed there, bathing in the blissful nothingness of morning stupor before the day's problems made their way into his head.

And soon enough, they did. So Denmark found himself groaning from the back pain that was the result of his improper sleep position and shutting his eyes in a desperate attempt to go back to sleep.

But he couldn't.

Because he had work in the afternoon.

Denmark marveled how something so routine could prevent one from their desires. It seemed to him that the entire world had already became so engulfed with regular customs, always knowing full well their places and not willing to push themselves to pursue what they want, even if it was something simple, like sleep. Each so content with putting the every day of the calendar through a meat grinder, so they come out all the same. Wake up, go to work, eat, sleep, wake up, go to work, eat, sleep...

Stubbornly trying to separate himself from the masses, Denmark closed his eyes and let his mind drift. Who cared about work? Who cared about being forced to make money or else he cannot pay next month's rent? Who cared about those he signed up to care for when he became a psychiatrist? Who cared about that stupid stupid _stupid_ Norwegian who had just, since yesterday, became his newest patient. Who cared that, even as he stayed up way past his intended bedtime last night writing the goddamn report, he still did not have a single clue on how to treat said patient. Nope, not Denmark. He certainly didn't care. That's right. He was going to continue his peaceful sleep without a single worry in the world.

The pretense lasted for about half a second, before Denmark threw his arms in the air and sat up. So much were needed to be done. His shift at work for today begins at noon and there was still the report he didn't finish from last night. "Fuck," he muttered to no one in particular. Sliding into his slippers, Denmark got up from his place at the computer desk and stormed down the stairs fitfully like an angry child.

* * *

"He didn't eat anything?"

"No," replied another familiar but slightly strained voice. "None of his food at breakfast was touched. And the supervising nurse said that he hadn't spoken a word since last night."

The man sounded worried and for some strange reason, that amused Norway.

"That can be a problem," the first voice commented with concern. "He is new right? Who is his assigned psychiatrist?"

"Dr. Denmark. But he's not going to be here until his afternoon shift today."

The mentioning of his personal psychiatrist had caught the Norwegian's attention. He perked his ears to listen more closely as the conversation had ventured into a topic of his interest. The two doctors outside his quarters seemed oblivious to his spying though, as they continued on without any suspicion.

"I thought Denmark was treating that Belarusian girl, was he switched?"

"Yes, I switched him because Dr. Denmark's specialty is delusional disorders, which is exactly what I think Norway is suffering from." Ah, Norway mused, so that doctor is Lithuania.

"Looks like he got his work cut out for him with this one then." A light chuckle. "From what I heard, the Norwegian is as stubborn as a brick. At breakfast, they brought out Elizaveta and even she couldn't get him to eat."

A soft sigh and then a brief pause. "Are we being too loud?" Lithuania suddenly sounded tense and nervous. "Norway is in his room and he may be able to hear us."

"Nah," replied the other, unfamiliar voice. In the silence, Norway could hear a clatter of keys and the slow turning of the doorknob. He ducked into his covers and evened out his breathing, closing his eyes just enough so that his long eyelashes covered up any possible attempts at peeking. The door opened with a quiet creak.

"See," gestured the doctor with the unfamiliar voice. "He's asleep."

Lithuania did not look as convinced but he didn't press the matter any further. With eyes scrutinizing on the Norwegian's still form he said, "Let's go then America, we don't want to disturb him. Norway has a session with Denmark this evening and hopefully he will get him to eat."

The doctor named America seemed happy to comply as he smiled and slid quietly out of the Norwegian's room. From this angle, he reminded Norway of Denmark; both tall, broad, and seemed to have a goofy grin forever plastered on their faces.

He had a feeling that they were both idiots as well.

The door closed with a muffled thud and Norway sighed quietly, turning in his covers as an attempt to get some actual shut-eye.

Dreams made much more sense than reality, or so it seemed to Norway in the past few days. Perhaps he will see Iceland again, just like he had last night when he came back from his little adventure on the roof. With that happy thought in mind, he began to doze off, right into a world purely of his own brain's psychological creations.

* * *

_A/N: Yes I introduced Iggy and America, two of my favourite characters of all times. :) They won't play much of a role though._


	5. Four

Hope everyone's having a fun summer so far! One advice, wear sunscreen, lots and lots and lots of it (I got so burnt on Canada day volunteering for this event).

Anyways enjoy~ Feel free to send me any concerns/suggestions/questions etc.

:)

* * *

**Chapter IV**

It was a different office from yesterday, Norway quietly mused to himself as he watched his Danish psychiatrist exchange a few quick words with the nurse at the door. The two had occasionally stopped their conversation to look at Norway, but he did not mind. Every one of his actions had been observed and noted ever since he stepped into the hospital anyway.

In boredom, Norway occupied himself with the décor of the new and unfamiliar office. Apparently, as he was informed, this was the Dane's personal work area and also where most of their future therapy sessions will take place. It was much smaller than the room he was interviewed in yesterday, at a size only slightly bigger than the Norwegian's own quarters. On the left side of the room was a large desk, filled with scattered files and pens with missing caps. Other than that piece of furniture, the majority of the place consisted only of two chairs. Their purpose is painfully obvious, especially since Norway was instructed to sit on one of them at the present. The rocking chair-like seat felt soft and cushiony, as if he was sitting on a large, oversized pillow. The large chair opposite to Norway was a furniture of much simpler design, made with a red scented wood and had a polished finish.

In his musings, Norway did not hear the resounding thud of a closing door or the approaching Dane. So when a hand was suddenly placed on his shoulders, the Norwegian instinctively let out a small gasp of surprise.

"Sorry," smiled Denmark sheepishly as he let go of the other and plopped himself down on the red wooden chair opposite to Norway. "Didn't mean to startle ya."

The Norwegian did not seem to be quite satisfied with the apology. Instead, he crossed his arms with an indignant 'hmf' escaping his lips.

Denmark chuckled, "Remind me not to get on your bad side."

Norway flashed a speculating glare at his grinning psychiatrist before lowering his eyes back onto the floor. If the man thought that he could get into the Norwegian's head simply with friendly conversations then he was dead wrong.

Sensing the sudden wave of rising tension in the room, the Dane quickly backtracked and began his original plan of action. "Joyce told me that you haven't eaten anything since this morning, completely ignoring your food at breakfast and throwing a big fit at lunch." A slight pause to look for any change in Norway's expression. "So, is the food really that bad or are you on some special diet that no one knows about?" The psychiatrist joked and looked expectantly at his patient, waiting for a reply.

Norway sat in silence, wanting to remain as unhelpful as he could. But as he gazed into the Dane's encouraging blue eyes, most of his original resolve melted. They were warm, dazzling, and seemed so impossibly full of life that it hurt Norway just to look. Slowly, he shook his head.

"Ah," Unaware of the impact he had on his patient, Denmark continued, leaning unconsciously forward to get a better look at the Norwegian's face. "None of the above then. How about you tell me the actual reason behind your unhealthy eating habit?"

Norway pursed his lips. He didn't know why he had rejected the food offered to him. It just felt fun at the moment, challenging the authority and having a choice for himself. It seemed silly, now that he thought about it, especially as the emptiness of his stomach began to develop a nauseating effect. If he was given some food now, he would gladly eat it.

Misunderstanding the silence for more stubbornness, Denmark sighed. "Listen," he stated grimly, "I know you're upset but starving yourself really isn't the answer." The Norwegian's gaze began to again shift toward the floor but Denmark was having none of that. In a flurry of motion, he reached over and grabbed the other's shoulders, forcing him to stare at his face. "Can you look at me when I'm talking to you?" His words must have sounded harsher than he anticipated as Norway cringed slightly. Relaxing his hold, his voice became gentler, "I don't want to do anything unnecessary but if this continues, then I will have to."

Norway stared unblinkingly into the psychiatrist's patient yet slightly exasperated eyes. Psychologically, the more the Dane pushed him to eat, the more he wanted to rebel. But practically, he knew that it wasn't the answer. Today was only the second day of his stay at the hospital and getting a feeding tube stuck in his nose wasn't really on the top of his 'to do' list. The mental image felt ironic and Norway fought to suppress a wave of laughter. Why was it funny to him, even he did not know.

"So, are you going to behave and eat normally from now on?" Denmark prompted. Norway gazed into the psychiatrist's ocean blue eyes. Slowly, he nodded.

"See, this is why," The Dane's eyes suddenly widened. "Wait, did you just nod? So you mean yes you're going to listen and behave?"

More nodding.

"Really?" Bewildered and wide-eyed, Denmark asked again. Norway couldn't decide whether he looked adorably confused or just plain stupid. It must be the second one. "J-just like that? No stubborn silent treatments, no fits, no nothing?"

"Why would I?" The Norwegian shrugged. The baffled look on the Dane's face greatly amused him. "I'm hungry now."

"Oh," Denmark leaned back and ran a hand through his messy blond locks. "Okay, that makes sense." A brief pause. "D-do you want me to call the nurse to bring up some food?"

The Norwegian nodded and watched in most amusement as the Dane staggered up and moved toward the intercom. He kept on looking back to his patient, eyeing him with an incredulous expression. A slow and, to some degree, mischievous smile broke on Norway's face as he listened to Denmark whisper a few muffled words to the nurse on the other end of the phone.

* * *

The aliens must have abducted his patient overnight and replaced him with a clone. Yes, that's it. That must be the reason he's acting like this.

Denmark scratched his head awkwardly as he watched the Norwegian dipped the piece of bread into the soup and put it into his mouth. One bite, two bite, three bite, and the bread was gone.

It almost seemed too easy.

When the Dane first arrived for his shift this afternoon, Lithuania had immediately pulled him into his office and briefed him on Norway's uncooperative behaviour. "He's not eating", the Lithuanian had stated grimly. "We tried everything but nothing had gotten through." Denmark must have looked shocked then, because Lithuania's frown had deepened. "Try to make him down some food. One or two days of starvation are not much of a concern but if it escalates, then we may have to use some sort of gavage."

He had came to their first official therapy session determined, at all costs, to make Norway eat, maybe even force him if that was what it takes. Because there was no way he would let any patient of his be restrained by a gavage. During the early stages of his career, he had once been placed in a retirement home where force feeding was a natural occurrence. Having seen first hand what a feeding tube could do to a person psychologically, he knew better than most that the device was quite torturous. So here he was, all tensed and braced for a fight, and then Norway told him that he would go down cooperatively. It felt weird, peculiar, and almost, disappointing.

"I can't eat if you keep on staring at me like a creep." A sarcastic voice snapped Denmark out of his musings. Looking up, he saw a pair of piercing blue eyes. Norway pushed the plates away.

Denmark flashed a quick glance at the leftover food. Half finished, he thought, but better than his expectations. The meal was surprisingly easy and feeling that he shouldn't push his luck, Denmark swiftly removed the plates.

"See, now that wasn't so bad was it?"

Norway shrugged and stared at him with those same cold blue eyes, the very ones that made Denmark feel like he was turning into ice just by looking at them. They felt distant, slightly unsettling, and if Denmark was any bit poetic as some of the authors of the books he had read, he would almost say that they were _lifeless_.

"Answer me something, because I'm honestly curious," the Dane asked quietly. "Why is it that every time I ask you something, you just sit there and shrug without actually giving me any real responses? Not that shrugging is bad or anything," Denmark quickly added as he felt that his question might sound slightly offensive. "I'm just kinda curious."

For a long while, Norway simply sat there in silence, not at all eager to respond. Denmark almost thought that he wasn't going to get any reply when one finally came his way. "Because," Norway said, "it doesn't matter what my answers are anyway."

"Huh?"

"You asked me how was the food," Norway continued, ignoring the look of confusion. "And it does not matter whether I think it's good or not, I would still have to eat it." A moment of silence. "What is the point of thinking up a coherent response when it has absolutely no effect in the final consequences?"

Denmark sat there, momentarily wordless. Not because what Norway just stated was total nonsense, but because it was completely true. Even he had not realised until now, but half of the questions the Dane asks to all of his patients were done out of professional courtesy, empty words with no actual solidity behind them. How the Norwegian was able to realise the fact was beyond Denmark. He had read somewhere before that patients suffering from mental health issues often spout out things that were unbelievably profound. He just didn't think that he would actually see for himself.

"That's," the Dane breathed, "too cool."

For a fraction of a second, it seemed to Denmark that some of the cold icy barrier in the Norwegian's eyes had melted, revealing fragments of sadness and vulnerability. But it was gone too quickly as Norway lowered his head and turned away, leaving Denmark to ponder whether or not it had just been his own overactive imagination.

* * *

Norway did not know whether it was the look of admiration or sincere interest on the psychiatrist's face that had reminded him of his brother. How long has it been since anybody looked at him that way? Ever since Ice's death, everybody's been treating him like he was a glass doll, fragile and with no opinions of his own. Wait, Ice's death? That's not right. Ice was here with him, real and very much alive.

Alive, that very word triggered an uproar inside Norway. All of a sudden, millions of voices were shouting at him, echoing their screams in his unstable mind. The crashing waves of noises were eating away his own thoughts, leaving him unable to think straight. Among those noises, Norway heard the pounding of a thunderstorm, and laughter, and what was that sound, a car engine? It felt painful and frightening and dark and –

"Hey, are you alright? You're starting to look kind of pale."

As if the Dane's voice was a valve, the noises suddenly came to a halt. Blissful peace surrounded the Norwegian. His mind was again clear and uninterrupted, as if the chaos before had never even happened. Bewildered, Norway looked up into the Dane's concerned eyes, his own hazy and out of focus. Now in the silence, the noises were beginning to crawl back, slowly rising in volume once more.

"Talk!" Norway commanded to Denmark, barely suppressing his own uneven breathing as he spoke.

"What?"

The noises became unbearable again, and Norway felt like he was drowning. The sounds behaved like a giant claw, enclosing his mind's airways so that even though he was fine physically, his brain told him that he could not breathe. "Open your god damn mouth," the Norwegian spoke through gritted teeth as another wave of noise enflamed his mentality. The storm came back, more wild and ferocious than before. He could barely register his own voice when he heard the echo of a loud explosion in his head. "Say _anything_!"

"Nor, I'm afraid that I don't understand what you are asking." Denmark seemed genuinely confused as he laid a tentative hand on the Norwegian's arm. "Tell me what's going on right now, tell me what you're seeing."

Again, his voice acted as an antidote. For when the Dane spoke, all of the unwanted noises in his head seemed to disappear without a trace. The storm was over, and the sounds were gone. Norway did not understand why but at the very moment, he could care less. Grasping this very strand of lifesaving line, Norway asked again. He tried to be more composed and precise this time, but it only came out like a raspy whisper. "Talk, use your voice, and keep on talking. Don't stop."

At that, Denmark leaned back with a surprise. "Y-You want to hear my voice?"

"Yes, sure, something like that," Norway waved his hands dismissively. He wished that the Dane would just hurry because he can hear the faint echo of the noises coming back. He could not understand why at the time, but the sounds shot such a painful feeling of fear and apprehension down his back it was almost unbearable. "Just start talking."

"Oh," The Dane began, staring at the Norwegian curiously. "Um, well, wait!" He stood up suddenly. "I almost forgot! There's something I need to explain to you. Since you, uh, want to hear my voice so badly, I might as well do it now."

Running to his desk, Denmark fumbled around with the drawers until he finally fished out a crumpled folder. Muttering a noise of concern, the Dane smoothed out its edges and sat back down in front of Norway, "Here," he opened the folder and handed a sheet of paper to the man. "You can look at this while I explain some things to you."

Norway was barely registering anything the Dane was saying. He simply felt relieved that Denmark was talking and the awful noises of the storm seemed to finally die down. Its presence seemed so surreal that Norway was almost certain that he had experienced it somewhere before. Maybe a memory? But no matter how hard he dug into his head, he simply couldn't remember any storms of such ferocity. Perhaps he really was insane.

"This is the International Asylum for the Mentally Insane, or just IA, as some of the doctors here refer to this place." Unconscious of the Norwegian's musings, Denmark laughed as he saw the 'why-the-hell-are-you-telling-me-this-I-could-care-less' expression on his patient's face. "The paper you're holding right now is sort of an introductory letter. Your caregivers, Sweden and Finland in this case, have already read all of this before placing you here. But," he gestured to Norway in a dramatic fashion, "it is necessary that _you_ know what's going on as well."

_Sweden and Finland were his caregivers? Since when did he __need a caregiver?_

"You probably already know this but I am your official personal psychiatrist, which means that you'll be seeing me five times a week, each time consists of three hours. Quite a lengthy period but I'm sure that with me, you won't even feel the passing time.

"And because of the little, uh, incident yesterday at the interview session, I've decided for you to be in Ward C," a slight pause here. "This is not a bad thing at all, really. It means that you're pretty good at where you stand. I've also developed, well, going to develop, a treatment plan based on your behaviours in our therapy sessions. In terms of your schedule, your meal times are from eight to nine, one to two, and seven to eight. Ten is lights out so there's no wondering in the halls after this hour." Norway snickered slightly at this but of course Denmark, busily caught up in his own voice, did not hear it. Instead, he stopped for a brief moment to study the folder in his hands. "Yes, that should cover about all of it. Oh and Joyce is your supervising nurse so if you have problems or concerns, feel free to ring her up. Just press the big red button in your room. Now," he clasped his hands together, a gesture Norway thought was unbelievably childish. "Any questions?"

"Just one," Norway asked. The whole speech seemed so generic it missed all the key details, important things such as "When do I leave?"

For a second there, Norway thought that Denmark almost looked pained. But he soon concluded that was impossible, because someone so oblivious and stupid couldn't possibly feel an emotion as deep and profound as pain.

"Nor," the Dane whispered, his voice mirrored his sad expression. "You know I can't answer that question. You're currently on a three month treatment plan but that could be changed at a moment's notice." He stepped closer and Norway looked up. From this angle, where the afternoon sun came in from the office's window, lighting up the Dane's hair into a million shades of gold and brown, Denmark looked, as much as Norway hated to admit, impossibly attractive. His blue eyes were reflective, and his expression deep in thought. "You could leave tomorrow, you could leave next week, or you could leave in ten years. It all depends on-"

"How I behave, I get it."

"See, you do understand." Denmark looked somewhat relieve, his tone turned slightly playful, almost teasing. "And here I thought you were some cold, insensitive creature of the underworld that does not comprehend the concept of rational reasoning."

Seeing the look of utter confusion on the Norwegian's face, Denmark explained. "You know, like the evil troll in Snow Queen, the little guy with the mirror that made things looked ugly."

"… You need a life."

* * *

A/N: Btw, guys, the reason why I'm using both country names and human names is because of the fact that some countries like Denmark and Norway doesn't have official names, and I don't really want to stick a fan name on them. Therefore, for countries with actual names like England, Arthur Kirkland would be their official name while England would be something like a nickname or preferred name. Like how he said, "I'm Arthur, or England." Almost like how some people say "I'm Cassandra, or Cassie." For people without official names like Norway, their official name would be Norway (no last name) but their nickname would be something like Nor or Norge.

Hope that doesn't concern people too much. I will try to stick to country names for the rest of the story just for the sake of Denmark and Norway, though this is a human AU.

Reviews are love~

Oh, I almost forgot  
HAPPY BIRTHDAY AMERICA~


	6. Five

First off, before I say anything. Let me apologize for updating so late. It's just that this summer had been extremely hectic for me. Between Co-op, french tutoring, math homework, a part time job, sucking up to my mom, and sort of having a life, I just couldn't find the time to write.

But of course those are all excuses.

Anyways enjoy~ I hope it did not turn out too choppy as this was written over the span of two weeks.**  
**

* * *

**Chapter V**

Time soon became a relative concept for Norway, each hour of the clock now marked by the events in a programme. Breakfast, it was eight. Lunch, it was one. Dinner, it was seven. Flexibility became non-existent, and as days passed, Norway felt that he too was etched into a timetable, routine and unchanging.

Like a plastic doll.

His life rotated around a fixed schedule where during the day, he performs a well-rehearsed act for the hospital staff and during the night, he battles against the cruel voices that never seemed to stop haunting him. But Norway appreciated those moments, because Iceland was sometimes among those voices. They were rare and precious and made him feel like everything was the same as it always had been. And between the thin lines linking reality with dreams, everything did remain the same.

The only occasions where time is dynamic and unpredictable were the hours he spent with Denmark. The man was so impulsive and energetic that it seemed almost impossible to feel lost in the customs. Everyday, there would be something different; usually something stupid, crazy, and inept.

He had already presented Norway with a wide range of "therapeutic treatments" in the several sessions they shared, ranging from attempts at emotional bonding to brutal physical activities. As much as Norway hated to admit it, Denmark often left him breathless. And it was not even the beautiful type of breathless; it was the exhausting, frustrating, literally out-of-breath kind.

It had been three weeks already since he first arrived at the place. The initially strange and foreign hospital was now as familiar as the back of his hand. Faces, he remembered and names, he memorised. When allowed, Norway spent his free time exploring the grounds, discovering new rooms and sites.

His favourite place became the rooftop, where he had first met England. To Norway's own surprise, the two had actually quite a lot of things in common. Both shared a love for magic and believed heavily in the existence of mythical creatures. And despite the Brit's colourful vocabulary and the Norwegian's often scornful remarks, both maintained an air of maturity. Especially on days like these, where the afternoon sun lights up a clear, pretty sky, Norway liked to sit against the rooftop railings and half-listen to England speak about random things.

"Where did you get that?"

The Norwegian batted an eyelash and went back to focus on his work. His mouth lazily formed a reply. "Get what?"

"That," pointed England at the small sharp writing utility in Norway's hands. The pencil traced hastily over the page, forming a rough, but detailed sketch of an unidentified human figure. "I've been begging for one for ages. But they are all too bloody scared to give it to me." The Brit muttered. "Probably afraid I would stab myself to death or something of the variety."

"The nurse dropped it when she left my room yesterday." Norway replied. He leaned back and examined his work, eyes still trained on the page. _The head is too big. _

England let out an exasperated sigh. "Lucky bastard," he ran a hand through his messy blond locks.

"Just go steal one."

"As if it is that simple," England sighed. "For a stupid clueless Yankee, America is actually quite observant. He makes the nurse triple check my room every single day." He scratched his head in frustration. "There is no way I can hide anything from him."

"America?" Norway finally dropped his focus on the artwork and looked up at the Brit.

"My psychiatrist," England replied, and then added quietly under his breath, "_unfortunately_."

Forming a small sound of acknowledgment, Norway went back to his doodling, "I've seen him before. A popular guy."

"Well, he is hard to miss." The Brit's thick eyebrows furrowed together as he explained. "Dumb as a brick and incapable of keeping his nose out of other people's businesses." A stifled laugh escaped his lips. "I just cannot understand why all those girls just throw themselves at him."

Norway's elongated fingers gripped the pencil with professional fluency, lightly tracing over the rough outlines of the human figure. The features are now somewhat recognizable. A head of spiky messy hair stood out the most in the midst of the pencil markings. Slowly, he replied, "He's a charmer."

At that, England made an undecipherable noise that sounded something like a hybrid between a sputter and a gruff. "Charmer my ass," his voice was full of indignation. "Since when did charming became a synonym for stupid?"

Norway shrugged.

"Let's talk about something else," The irritated blond grumbled. "I'm getting a headache just thinking about that bloody American."

The Norwegian opened his mouth to say that the headache was probably due to over-exposure of the sun and not America but decided against it at the last moment. Instead, he respected the man's wishes and remained silent. His fingers busily fumbled with the drawing at hand. His hard work had finally seemed to pay off as the figure on the page became more and more distinct with each following pencil stroke. The picture turned out rather well, if he could say so himself.

"What are you drawing?" England broke the silence as he attempted to peek over Norway's shoulder. His height gave him a slight advantage "Is that? No wait…" his voice slowly trailed off before he made a sudden noise of recognition. A pair of surprised green eyes widened as the Brit stared incredulously at the Norwegian. "Why are you – "

"It's not." Norway smashed the picture face down onto the ground, his face kept down so that the Brit would not see the faint flush on his cheek. "Stop looking."

"You are terrible at lying," England's smile was so smug that Norway did not even want to know the thoughts behind them. Ignoring the Norwegian's protests, he made a quick grab for the picture, "Now tell me, why are you drawing Denmark?"

"I studied Commercial Arts in University," Norwegian replied nonchalantly, his face now completely clean of any previous blush. "His hair style was intriguing, and I wanted to see how it would look in a graphic perspective." He quickly snatched the picture back from the grinning Brit.

"Is that it?"

"Of course," Norway stood up. In a quick motion, he folded the accursed picture in half and stuffed it into his pocket. "As a matter of fact, I'm going to throw this out later. Denmark's face is so stupid looking that it looks like I'm screwing up when I try to portray it accurately." A slight pause as he turned to face his friend. "It's almost lunch time."

England laughed and stood up as well. Using his hands to brush away the ground dust on his legs, he smiled. "A little too defensive, are we not?"

Norway ignored him. His strides toward the rooftop door, however, suddenly doubled in speed, leaving the Brit indignantly chasing behind him.

* * *

"So," Denmark paused, as if waiting for a dramatic effect in his opening sentence. Norway looked rather happy this afternoon. He had no emotions on his face but at least he wasn't frowning. This could be a good sign. "How are you feeling today?"

"You ask that every time I come here."

"That's because you haven't told me anything yet." The Dane let out a frustrated sigh. It was true. Almost one month had passed since their first therapy session and still Denmark did not receive a legitimate answer to any of his questions. "Every time I ask you that, either you just shrug or give me this dirty look that makes me too scared to say anything else." He whined half-jokingly, waiting for his patient's reaction.

Norway looked slightly surprised, but his expression quickly changed back in the fraction of a second into its automatic setting: the poker face. "I feel normal."

"Define normal for me."

Norway raised an eyebrow.

Denmark shook his head and laughed. "Fine, fine. Excuse my pathetic attempt at philosophy. But seriously though, this 'I'm-too-cool-for-you' act has to stop at some point." The Dane stared at his patient, hoping that his speech would be made clearer if he held his patient's gaze. "I can't help you if always dodge my questions alright? Every time we have our sessions, you're not here. I mean you're here, but I know you're really not." Denmark ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "Do you get what I'm trying to say?"

The Norwegian gave him a blank look.

The psychiatrist let out a tired laugh. "You're always so silent and it doesn't help when you wear a big, stupid mask over your emotions." Denmark's face dropped as he looked away, a sad smile dawned on his lips as he muttered. "How would I know if I'm doing a good job if you keep acting like this? How would I know if I'm on the right track of helping you get back to normal when you behave like a statue?"

"Is that what you're worried about?"

Denmark looked back to Norway in surprise, as he did not expect a reply from him. Staring into the Norwegian's big blue eyes, almost silver in colour, Denmark felt as if he was looking at the ocean, deep and calming yet mysterious with a slight edge of risk.

Suddenly, to the Dane's utmost surprise, Norway smiled. And it wasn't even the sarcastic smirk that Denmark often received, it was a genuine one. A peaceful, sincere, _happy_ smile that took his breath away.

"If it makes you feel any better about yourself, which I doubt is possible considering the confident, conceded idiot you already are. But I do appreciate you caring." Norway cleared his throat at this point, obviously slightly embarrassed.

Denmark sat in shock as Norway spoke the words, his mind going through various stages of denial before finally realising that it was not a dream, his patient did in fact has human emotions and had actually thanked him.

Mistaking his silence for something else, Norway continued, "Keep looking at me like that will make me suspicious of how you got your medical degree."

"Um, would you remind repeating what you just said?" Fumbling his pant pockets, Denmark searched desperately for his cell phone. "So that I can you know, record it and show to my future grandkids what an amazing psychiatrist I was."

"Don't push it." Even though his words were of disapproval, the expression on Norway's face told a whole other story. Tinge of playfulness lit up his eyes as a faint smile adorned his lips.

And by god it was a gorgeous smile.

Of all the patients Denmark has had in his few years of employment, Norway was by far the most stubborn patient and the hardest to read. His feelings were always tucked away and his actions carefully planned out so they betrayed no trace of his emotions. For a sincere open smile like the one he had just showed, it was as rare as a blue moon.

No longer in control of what came next, Denmark slowly reached across the table between them and lightly traced his fingers around the Norwegian's cheek. His skin felt cool and smooth to the touch.

"You know," Denmark spoke, quietly as if in a trance, "you should do that more often."

The Norwegian sat rooted to his seat, unable to break the gaze he shared with the doctor. It was as if he was under the Dane's spell, frozen and suddenly mesmerised by the mixed emotions behind Denmark's deep blue eyes. Slowly he whispered. "Do what?"

"That," Fingers still lingering on Norway's face, Denmark gently tugged the corners of his patient's lips upwards, forming an artificial smile. "It's really pretty."

The two remained frozen in the position for a while. Norway sat quietly and Denmark also uncharacteristically silent. The scene seemed like a piece of frame cut out of a movie or magazine, unmoving and trance-like. Both of them caught up in the moment and neither felt the need to move away.

Until Denmark suddenly realised where his hand was and pulled back in a yelp.

Reddening furiously, he faked a noisy cough to cover up his embarrassment.

_That was completely out of line._

Secretly stealing a glance at his patient, Denmark did not see any emotion on Norway. In fact, other than the faint flush that was rapidly retreating on his cheeks, his patient appeared to be his normal self: cool and collected behind a mask of calm. It made Denmark wonder whether or not what had just happened had been simply his own overactive imagination.

But of course it wasn't. Because the Dane clearly remembered the intimate touch and the feeling of soft smooth skin which even now, still lingered on his fingertips. Something like that could not be made up. Denmark was not so creative of a dreamer.

Then why, Denmark mused, didn't he push him away.

* * *

Norway sat rooted to his seat.

He couldn't remember how long since anyone had touched his face like that. Maybe back in high school with his on-and-off girlfriend? Perhaps at his last physical exam when his doctor wanted to look at his throat? Norway wasn't sure. What he was sure of was the fact that his heart beat way too fast for his liking.

Norway understood the impropriety of the Dane's actions. And the psychiatrist would without a doubt be reprimanded if others were to find out. But for some reason, he did not wanted to tell anyone. The brief yet slightly intimate action felt strange to the Norwegian, almost nice even. It made him feel cherished.

Absentmindedly, Norway wondered if there would be more touches like that in the future.

Looking across at Denmark, the man clearly depicted signs of unsettlement. His eyes seemed to wonder everywhere, first at his own hand, then at the wall, and finally at Norway. The Dane looked anxious, worried. And deeply embedded in those crystal blue eyes, Norway could see tints of surprise and confusion.

He did not know what to make of Denmark's expression, or what to do with his own rapidly beating heart. From the present situation, the Dane seemed to share his thoughts as well.

So Norway decided to wait. And the voices that had always been hiding in his head cackled in laughter.

* * *

As the initial shock of his own impulsiveness died down, Denmark became observant.

"Nor," he began. "Are you alright?"

A slight nod.

From the look on his face, Denmark could clearly tell that he wasn't alright. "Are you angry at me?"

"Should I be?"

Denmark smiled apologetically and leaned further back into his chair. "I am sorry. It's just that at times, when I see something pretty, I simply cannot help myself." The Dane winked at Norway, ending his statement off with a joke to test his patient's reaction.

Norway looked up with an incomprehensible expression on his face, which frustrated the Dane to no extent. "I'm not gay, Denmark."

"Of course, of course," Denmark laughed loudly, but a slight edge of disappointment tinted his otherwise carefree laughter. "I wouldn't expect you to be."

As the sound of the psychiatrist's amusement died down, the small office room once again fell into awkward silence. Denmark gazed in speculation into the Norwegian's eyes. It's been said that a person's eyes were the window to their soul. From the Dane's perspective and to his frustration, Norway's soul seemed to be a puddle of nothing; no traces of emotions or feelings, just two mass of cerulean framed by long, blond lashes.

"Isn't this nice?" the overwhelming silence was finally broken by Denmark. His mouth in a grin as he leaned forward, staring intensely at Norway. "I learn a new thing about you in every session." He pulled out his fingers, as if counting down the things. "I know that you are quiet but not shy, you like the small white flowers in the garden, you are strangely attracted to the painting hanging in Lithuania's office, and today I learnt that you're not gay."

Norway sat quietly, unfazed by the long rant.

"At the rate we're going, we'll be like best friends in no time." Denmark stopped and took a deep breath. His eyes narrowed slightly as he prepared his most important statement. "And best friends tell each other everything."

Norway looked at Denmark, his face as expressionless as ever. Soon enough, his lips uttered the words the Dane so desperately wanted to hear.

"What do you want to know?"

* * *

Reviews are love~

And the next update should be before September 5th, hopefully.


	7. Six

**Chapter VI**

"Tell me about your brother." Denmark held his breath as he unleashed the question, afraid that even the slightest noise would bring about a fire-cracking effect.

"What about him?"

All the pretty smiles from before had vanished, without even a shadow in its place. The little connection he ever so carefully built between them broke easily into pieces, and the barrier his patient had usually put up snapped back in shape. He couldn't place the emotion in Norway's eyes. It frustrated him to no end. But of course, none of that was new. As a psychiatrist, Denmark had devoted most of his life pursuing the secrets of the human mind. He had long realised that one cannot simply assign a name to a feeling and call it as that. It would be like specifically naming every single shade in the visible spectrum: a guaranteed tedious and impossible project.

"Were you two close?"

"Yes," Norway answered quietly, his hand on the chair unconsciously tightened. "We _are_ very close."

The use of present tense brought out a small frown on the Dane's face, but he quickly brushed it aside with a smile. "Of course, seeing how much you love him, I would assume you guys were like best friends."

At this, the Norwegian's expression softened. "It's my responsibility to take care of him."

"Right," Denmark nodded, "because you're the older brother. And older siblings take care of the younger ones, to make sure they're happy and safe. Am I right?"

Norway looked away.

"You know," the Dane smiled casually, trying to re-divert his patient's gaze. Despite the relaxed exterior, Denmark was watching closely, just waiting for that flicker of emotion which will somehow magically spill the beans, "I'm an only child. Pampered with adoration and didn't have to share my parent's love with anyone else. So I can't really imagine having a younger sibling."

"No," Norway shook his head, agreeing with the Dane for once.

"Then tell me."

"I can't"

"And just why the hell not?"

"It's not something you could _just _describe with words." The Norwegian raised his eyebrow sarcastically. "You of all people should understand that."

Denmark felt like it was an interrogation; where he, of course as the intelligent and suave police officer, was trying his best to wring the truth out of the equally intelligent and suave (not to mention good-looking) criminal. He needed to identify the relationship between Iceland and Norway in order to further support his diagnosis. But unlike an actual criminal case, he could not simply base judgement on forensic science. Sure he could obtain the medical records of every visit the Norwegian paid to the doctor but what great use would that be? The human mind was not a structure of rigid statistics but a messy cluster of undefined feelings and raw emotions. And it is its instability which makes psychology such an intriguing yet controversial thing.

Denmark was more than aware that the bond Norway seemed to share with his brother held the key. But in order to understand that relationship, his patient had to cooperate. So far, all he got was that Norway was close to Iceland. And that was great, because surely nobody would've figured that out.

Fed up with the lack of progress, the slightly frustrated psychiatrist sighed. Laying one long gaze at the Norwegian, he slowly stood up from his rotating chair and walked toward one of the lower cabinets. A brief moment of fumbling and paper shuffling later, a confidential folder was pulled out.

Denmark did not want to use it. And really, up until this point, he really didn't think he needed to. Using it would be like cheating and someone as awesome as himself would never stoop that low. But his incredibly stubborn patient had really left him no choice. No matter what he tried, the Norwegian always managed to wittily dodge his questions and then fire them back at him with his standard cold and sarcastic manner.

Out of the corners of his eye, he could see Norway eyeing the file. Curiosity tinted his pretty cerulean eyes as they swerved up and down, trying to peek through the opaque yellow cover of the confidential folder.

_Good. Let him look._

"Do you remember what happened three months ago?" Denmark spoke slowly, accenting each and every word to make sure that they were well understood.

* * *

Norway could not turn his eyes away from the suspicious folder.

Something about it just seemed highly distrustful and the fact that Denmark had took it out and just left it on the table in plain sight made it even more so. From where he's sitting, he could vaguely see his own name and a series of numbers neatly printed at the top.

"Do you remember what happened three months ago?"

His head snapped up suddenly to look at the Dane, whose serious blue eyes reflected his own sombreness. A flood of memories flowed through his mind, tinting all his thoughts like splashes of colourful paint.

Among them, before he could even react, an unexpected chain of black splotches covered up almost everything.

And suddenly, strangely, he couldn't recall a thing. The remembrance was undeniably there but Norway could not seem to reach it. It seemed like there was a great wall between him and his own memory, a giant, thick barrier that was impenetrable with just Norway's strength alone.

Slowly, in response to Denmark's question, he shook his head.

The psychiatrist's frown deepened, clearly unsatisfied with the answer. Norway could not fathom why though, because he truly did not remember.

Denmark's voice was as calm as ever but below the surface of peaceful waters presented a slight edge. "Really now," he said smoothly. "You just can't think of anything important that happened three months ago." He paused for a moment, waiting as if expectantly for Norway to shake his head like always then began again. "Perhaps you need something to remind you."

His hand reached toward the table and his fingers danced around the edge of the folder, as if reluctant to open it. But slowly, he did. And as the yellow cover flipped oven, Norway saw a large laminated black and white photo. The car in the image, which lied upside down inside what looked like a dirt ditch, was destroyed beyond imagination, the front windows completely shattered and air bags popped open. Below the picture scribbled a caption, a messy swirl of handwriting that sent a tremor through his body.

_April 4th, vehicle at incident scene._

"Remember anything?" Denmark's voice was gentle, tentative. As if Norway was made up of expensive fragile glass that was guaranteed to break at any second. Though he wasn't a beaker, but a human being, made with emotions that were a hundred times stronger yet a hundred times more breakable. "I'm sure you recognize this car."

Despite the initial shock, Norway could not recognize the wrecked car in the photo. It certainly looked familiar, but only like a déjà vu.

"No," he mouthed, his voice barely more than a gasp.

"No?" Denmark's tone was surprised and curious; skepticism rang loud and clear in his words. "You're telling me that you've never seen this car before."

Looking into his psychiatrist's eyes, Norway managed to calm himself slightly. When he spoke again, his voice seemed much more convinced than before, a frail confidence that he was desperately clinging onto. "No, I haven't."

Denmark narrowed his eyes. "And I am to believe that is the truth?"

Perhaps it was the desperate edge in the Dane's voice, much like his own, that triggered something in Norway. He stood up abruptly, knocking over his chair in the process. Denmark flinched, slightly startled by his sudden movement. His hands tightened its grasp on the arms of the chair as he looked up at his patient cautiously.

"I need to go," Norway spoke quietly, breathlessly, as if he had been running a marathon. His blue eyes depicted shadows of panic and doubt, making them more hazed than usual.

It wasn't really the reaction Denmark was looking for, but it was much better than his patient's usual nonchalance. Had it been someone else, Denmark would simply drop the subject or let them leave as they requested. But it was Norway who stood before him, and after several weeks of almost zero progress, Denmark's desperation overruled his better judgement.

"You go when I say so," he spoke coolly, standing up so his new height would better conduct his authority. "And right now, I need you to tell me what happened on April 4th."

Denmark told himself that he was only pushing Norway because he needed to know answers that will benefit the treatment program, and a higher level of understanding of his patient's mind means a greater chance of mental improvement.

_Or perhaps he just cared more about Norway than anybody else._

Norway opened his mouth, as if to speak but then closed it again. Slowly, he backed away, eyes fixed on the floor and head shaking slightly. "No," he mouthed.

"No?" Denmark was agitated, slightly angry but mostly due to his own frustration. "Is that all you know how to say?" He moved forward and grabbed the Norwegian forcefully at the shoulders, two large hands on each side forcing Norway to look up at him. "How about actually cooperating with me so I can help you get better? How about actually answering my questions so I know what's going on?"

Norway froze. And for a fraction of a second, he just stood there, slowly absorbing the meaning behind the Dane's words. But reality soon reached him and he pushed Denmark away, more violently than he intended. His eyes, now restless and wild and so full of agitation it seemed like an all-out war is going on in his head. Almost humorously, the Dane prayed that it wasn't a war about whether or not he should actually listen or he should just keep being stubborn.

And then, he started to whimper.

Denmark didn't even hear it at first, for the noise was so small that even in a silence office room, it was barely detectable. But of course, it gradually grew louder, more strained and desperate. Norway looked as if to be on the verge of tears but was too obstinately strong to let them fall. The sound was a knife to Denmark, slowly cutting his heart to pieces and mocking him for his inability to help someone in need.

_Someone__ he __cared __about_.

"Nor?" he stepped closer.

Norway's head snapped up. His expression grew from what seemed to be uncertainty to downright frightened. He backed away, frantically trying to increase the distance between himself and Denmark. The method succeeded until the back of his head hit the file cabinets. His eyes grew wide, like a cornered animal. He looked at the Dane with pleading eyes.

"Nor?" Denmark spoke but held his ground, cautious to not frighten his patient anymore than he apparently already had. "Tell me what's happening."

The Norwegian shook his head violently. Eyes never straying away from the Dane, he slowly opened one of the cabinet drawers with one hand. From where he was standing, Denmark could see a long line of yellow folders they kept for records, within each held pages of extremely important and confidential information. Judging from the current situation, the Dane felt a sick feeling in his stomach.

"Nor," he strained, "what are you-"

Norway didn't let him finish.

Hand reaching into drawer, the Norwegian dived in, without any mercy or hesitation, grabbed a handful of important files and flung them to the floor. Denmark watched wide-eyed as the pages swayed in the air. Some contained pictures and treatment plans, but most were records of past patients. The psychiatrist thinks he saw a photo of Belarus somewhere within the fluttering pile.

The room was now a compete mess. An upturned chair decorated by sprinkles of pages, like black and white confetti.

Norway looked at him, slightly frightened eyes were coloured with rebellion. His hands were in the drawers once more and again came a snowfall fluttering documents.

Amidst the panic, Denmark did what he knew best. The emergency phone on his desk had a speed dial button to Lithuania's office.

* * *

Norway could not see a thing when a team of nurses, led by Lithuania, stormed into the office. All he remembered was a pair of strong arms that held him ever so tightly. And he clung desperately at them, trying to reminisce that odd and unfamiliar feeling of security.

He could not recall why he scattered the papers all over the floor. It just seemed right at that moment, a futile attempt at defiance. Of course, it just made him sicker as he looked at the results of his childish tantrum. When he finally collapsed though, Denmark reached to him. He held out his hand and smiled. Perhaps it was the Norwegian's own imagination, but at that moment, Denmark's eyes seemed to be a bit bluer than usual, and his hair a bit more gold than yellow.

The weight of Denmark's arms wrapped around him felt heavy, but in a safe and secure way. It made him feel loved and protected. And if he closed his eyes, the arms could be thinner, lighter, and lined with soft skin rather than hard muscles. The hair could be a lighter shade, more silver than blonde. And if he really imagined hard, he could open his eyes and see instead of deep blue, a beautiful violet colour that reflected the sky at sunset.

Norway knew he was slipping. The syringe in his arms gave a titillating effect to the world. He lifted the corner of his lips and buried himself deeper into Denmark's embrace, hiding his pretty smile from the world.

* * *

**…**

* * *

_Help me._

Norway awoke in cold sweat. The raging thunderstorm was no help to his nightmares. He sat up in his bed and looked outside. The rain was berating heavily onto the glass panes. Ever so often, the wind howled in dramatic agony.

The night patrol nurses forgot to close his windows.

Getting out of bed, Norway padded bare foot on the cold ceramic floor of his little room toward the curtains. He gripped the handle tightly, and pulled, with a little struggle, hard on the window. The glass pane slid shut with a quiet thud, muffling the noises outside.

There was no clock in his room and the bad weather outside made it impossible to judge the time of day based on the severity of darkness.

Norway drew the curtains, flinching slightly as a sudden clap of lightning rattled his window frame. He walked back toward his bed and wrapped himself in the warm covers.

It was nights like these that reminded him how much he hated the rain.

* * *

"He's been really quiet these days hasn't he?"

Denmark flashed a quick glance at the nurse standing behind him. Nodding faintly, his attention went immediately back to the monitor. Norway appeared to be speaking to England on the screen. But Denmark could tell no more than that for his voice was muted by the camera and his expression blurred by the badly coloured pixels.

They needed to get better computers.

"Really, ever since that day when he threw all the papers on the ground, he's been a lot nicer to everyone." Joyce continued, her voice was high and sounded like bells. "It was like he finally let go of all that feeling, you know. Like he finally said what he wanted to say."

Denmark hummed a small sound of acknowledgement but he couldn't disagree more with her words. Norway was far from letting go, let alone finally saying what he wanted to say. In fact, the walls between them seemed to have grown higher, stronger and more durable than ever before. Denmark could feel the tension between them during their therapy sessions, with him politely asking non-directive questions and Norway politely skirting around with non-directive answers. Occasionally, the Norwegian smiled. But they were fake, bogus smiles that were all shine and no substance. It made Denmark sick in the stomach.

"And it's all thanks to you really," Joyce spoke quietly, an excited edge in her voice. "You know, I've never met someone like you doctor, always so full of energy and bright new ideas. I really admire the way you treat the patients, caring yet always so professional."

Denmark almost laughed at her words.

Professional? He was far from professional. If he was truly professional, then he would have long figured out a good treatment plan for Norway. He wouldn't have Norway so barred against him, shielding all of his thoughts and emotions.

_If he was truly professional, he wouldn't be so startled by Norway's soft pale skin as he buried himself into his arms._

For a brief moment, Denmark let his imagination ran wild.

It was painful, almost, to realise the possibilities had they met in a circumstance other than this. Norway would be completely normal, perhaps still sarcastic and stoic, but sane nevertheless. Denmark would no longer be bounded by the tight ropes of ethics. It was an interesting subject to ponder. How would their relationship develop? Would they be good friends? How about more than that? Denmark didn't dare to think about stepping beyond the realms of friendship but curiosity left him so very tempted.

"Look, he's speaking!"

Joyce's voice snapped him back to reality. His face slightly flushed from his thoughts. Glad for the distraction, Denmark directed his attention back to the monitor, where a fuzzy looking Norway was making some sort of speech.

If it could actually be called a speech.

On the screen, the patients participating in the afternoon's group therapy activity all sat down in a circle like children in a kindergarten class. It was Norway's turn to speak. The camera showed a side top view of the Norwegian's face and from Denmark's perspective, he looked tired and _bored._ Very bored, in fact, for the lines of his eyebrows knitted together in such a fashion that it made him seemed younger than he really was. The Dane smiled.

"I really think he improved a lot since the last few days."

Joyce's voice was suddenly at his ear. He could feel her hot breath tickling the soft cartilage. Startled, Denmark turned around slowly, flinching unconsciously back as he realised just how close she really was.

He could smell the perfume on her; a rather flowery fragrance, like the overbearingly sweet scent of a decaying rose.

"And it's all because of you." Her lipstick stained mouth pouted upwards as her voice became no more than a husky whisper.

It wasn't a completely new sensation really, when Joyce started to unbutton her blouse. Denmark had dated girls in high school and as popular as he was, situations like this simply happened too often. What surprised him really was that she came on to him at work, and behaviour like this would get both of them jobless in seconds flat if they were caught.

And none of this related to his relationship with Norway of course.

Denmark wondered if it was the risk and impropriety that makes forbidden love so tempting. As human beings, it was natural to lust for things that would never truly belong to us.

He could see the top half of her bra now, lacy and a deep blue. It reminded him of Norway's eyes only not as pretty.

Joyce's thin, manicured fingers moved slowly, sensually, as if she was putting on a show for the wide-eyed blonde in front of her. Denmark was feeling none of the effects though, for his mind never left the computer screen where Norway now sat, quietly and stoically in the group activity circle. Slowly, he reached out, a large hand covering hers. Joyce looked up, smiling, almost expectantly.

"Don't waste your time on me love," he stated, calm and out-of-characterly collected. A nimble hand quickly tightening the loose buttons she managed to open. "I'm gay."

Ignoring the shocked stare from the now confused girl, Denmark walked out of the surveillance room with fast, long strides. As the door closed in a low thud, he refused to imagine that if it had been Norway instead of Joyce in a similar situation, the result would most likely be drastically different.

* * *

A/N: First of all, I like to apologize for being a huge dick. Yes, go on, do what you have to do, say what you have to say, just get all the anger outttt.

But really, I am truly sorry. I know I promised September 5th, but but but, school is being harder than me than I anticipated and everything right now is just a mess and my marks are dying and my life is dying and I am dying and just blehhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Yes, it's not an excuse, I know.

On the bright side, this is finally up and I hope it can be some satisfaction to all of you.

And just for the record, I am not two months late, I am simply a month and twenty five days. There's a big difference.

So ha.

Happy Halloween guys, I love you all~

:)


	8. Seven

A/N: Holy crapp, I am so sorry this got out so late. The truth is, this was finished a long time ago but I was both really busy and incredibly lazy to fish it out and edit it. School is not going so well for me either so I spend most of days moping in a corner about my marks.

Sryyy!

(And when I did edit it, it was so bad I actually had to rewrite a lot of things D:)

* * *

**Chapter VII**

When Iceland was little, Norway used to watch him sleep; admiring the way his little fists would curl up around the blankets, grasping the sheet for security. His eyelids would flutter and sometimes would follow by a slight gasp as he rolled around in his little cradle. Norway loved the way the sun coloured his hair when his brother took his afternoon nap, all silver and gold and beautiful in all the shades of the world.

He would draw him, capturing down every miniscule movement on pencil and paper. When he was older, the pencils were replaced with pastels. He had a whole collection with a hundred or so different shades, but even that, he felt, was not enough to truly capture the world. On daring days, he painted with his bare hands dipped in buckets of bright colours. There was never a need for any brushes when he painted for himself. He felt more connected with his work that way, when his hands could slide across the plane of the paper, its texture under his touch. There was power in the way his fingers moved, and the art he created danced for him like a stringed puppet.

He kept all of his drawings, even those that caused him to wince the times he saw them after. Time and maturity had shaped his work, bringing light to details and emotions behind still objects. It was an exhilarating feeling, to flip through his old sketchbooks and see the reflection of his life embedded in lead and ink.

Norway was an artist, and still is.

At least that was what he told himself at dinner, when he carved a smiley face in the tasteless mash potatoes with an ugly plastic spork. One glance down the long bench tables, he could see that all the faces of other patients had already blurred together.

In a place like this, there was only so much of himself he could hold onto before he became another statistic in some psychology textbook.

* * *

"Check."

"Nice!" Denmark grinned, completely unaffected by the fact that he was losing terribly. It was battle he knew he could not win. In fact, his eyes were not even on the chessboard but instead on the man sitting across him.

Norway looked absolutely endearing when he was concentrated.

Denmark tipped a rook forward, a quick but hopeless attempt to save his king. The Norwegian seemed confused for a second, baffled at the irregularity of the move. Sighing, he looked up at the psychiatrist with tired eyes.

"You're not even trying."

"Hey," Denmark shrugged with a smirk, his eyes playful and devious. "It's not my fault you're just so naturally good."

"A two year old can beat you."

"That's biologically impossible."

Norway simply cocked an eyebrow at the smiling Dane before directing his attention back to the game at hand. After a brief moment, he moved his knight.

Denmark retreated with his queen. A simple move, yet it effectively blocked the knight from venturing any further into his already poorly guarded territory.

Norway smiled.

"You seem to be very good at chess," Denmark spoke slowly, watching Norway's facial expression as he made his move. "I bet you've had lots of practice playing huh."

The silent reference to Iceland rang louder than any spoken words. Both parties saw that the game had now manifested itself beyond the squares of the board. A slight apprehension lingered in the air surrounding them; Denmark felt an increasing difficulty to breathe.

The Norwegian tensed, his fingers stopped in midair as he reached down for his knight. The smile from before was plastered on his face, fake and forced. His lips drew a curt line as he whispered his reply.

"Yes."

Denmark nodded with a smile as he watched Norway knocked down one of his pawns with an unnecessary amount of strength. "Cool," he replied nonchalantly, as if they were chattering about the weather. His picked up his queen and traced his fingers around it slowly, admiring its intricate craftsmanship. "Who usually wins?"

"He does," Norway replied, eyeing Denmark suspiciously. His gaze followed the Dane's fingers as he put the queen down on the chessboard a few squares away from his own knight, as if the two pieces were in a pre-choreographed dance, skirting never too far away from each other.

Another stupid move. Norway's eye narrowed.

"Really? I'm surprised." Denmark did not sound surprised at all. In fact, his voice was smoother than ever as he leaned back into his chair and folded his arms across his chest. "He must've been crazily good then."

"Certainly much better than you probably will ever be."

"Oh," Denmark laughed, the sound of it seemed to breathe life in the little office the two of them sat in. "Such harsh words darling," he clutched his heart in mocking drama. "You're hurting me."

Norway didn't even look up as he mercilessly killed off another one of the Dane's pieces. "Maybe that was the intention," he replied. Denmark's side was almost empty now, for the Norwegian had long stripped away his defence, and now was left with only a few to protect his king.

There was grace in the way Norway played chess, Denmark mused. He would begin with petty kills, inching little by little into the opponent's territory, but straying never so far away that it would be too late to retreat. Unlike Denmark, who followed pure intuition and adrenaline, Norway plans ahead. Every move was a part of a grand scheme, delicately calculated so it would be beneficial to him in the end. The attacks were slow and unexciting, an exercise to the Dane's patience, allowing him to drop his guard and loosen his defences only to realise his fatal mistake in the last few minutes. With almost all of his pieces captured, the king would be left to fend for himself, powerless and vulnerable. And before he could even realise what was happening, he would be conquered.

Denmark wondered if this was how he makes people fall in love with him.

Only when he looked up in the Norwegian's expectant eyes did he realise that it was his turn to move. Being so wrapped up in his own thoughts Denmark forgot that they were still in a game, and he still had a goal in mind.

"So I guess you two spent a lot of time together then," he said as he picked up his queen and backed a few more steps. Any piece that would threaten his king now faced the risk of being captured.

"We do," the Norwegian replied, as he stared at the chessboard. "Ice loves chess."

"How about you then? Do you two play because he liked it or you like it?"

"We play because I like him." Norway looked up, and for a flash of a second, Denmark saw such determination in those peaceful blue eyes that it almost knocked him breathless. "Check."

The psychiatrist didn't flinch in the slightest at the threat, he simply moved his king back a square and continued the conversation. "Right, because you were so close to him," he stated.

"Check."

"You realise that you haven't played with him in a while right?"

Norway's face was as passive as ever, as if he had blocked out all the undesirable noises in the world outside his mind. He looked fiercely concentrated at the game, even though anybody with a brain could figure out the outcome of it at the point. The battle was more intense in the verbal exchange between Denmark and Norway, and the result of it was definitely more consequential than their petty little chess game.

"Can you answer my question?"

"Check."

"I can imagine how you felt when it happened." Denmark was just blabbing now, the cliché words just leaving his mouth and he had no idea what he was saying. Though it must've had some relevance to the present situation, because it seemed so right at the moment. "There's a defence mechanism that we as people tend to employ naturally when the world we know fall apart on us, and it's called _repression_."

"That's nice."

"Do you understand what repression means? It means that we force facts we do not wish to believe into our unconscious. Sometimes it will slowly manifest itself into delusions and voices. You should be familiar with the voices I'm talking about."

Norway glared but Denmark waved him off.

"It's kind of like living in a dream, a twisted imitation of reality if you will. And the first step of getting better is to bring out the things you've repressed."

"I don't know what you're trying to say." The Norwegian refused to look at anything but the chessboard, as if it was the most interesting thing in the world.

"What do you think happened, Nor?" The Dane whispered, despite his best attempt to conjure up an authoritative tone. "Why do you think you're in this place, seeing all the nurses, taking all the medications," a sigh as his voice fades, "talking to me."

"I don't need an explanation for everything." Norway said quietly, almost eerily as he finally looked up at Denmark. "I don't need to think until the world makes sense to me. Because it doesn't have to. Does it occur to you that some people are actually content with the life they're living?"

"You're going to sit there and tell me you're happy, and that life for you right now is just nice and peachy?" The Dane raised his voice. "That is pretty absurd, even from you."

"I don't believe it's your job to criticize a patient."

Denmark's eyes narrowed. "'Ice' is gone," his voice was monotone and harsh, his patience was wearing thin.

Norway was silent after those words, so silent that Denmark was scared he had slipped into another psychosis attack. Denmark noticed that he was clenching his fingers into a fist tightly at his side. His face was as impassive as ever, and his blond hair hung just low enough to cover his eyes. Denmark wondered how many masks Norway had on him, and how many imitations he had to break down to get to his heart.

When the Norwegian finally spoke though, his voice was weak and the Dane had to lean forward slightly just to hear him. "Checkmate," he murmured quietly, almost as if he was announcing defeat instead of victory. There was such vulnerability in those eyes that he almost felt guilty saying all those things he was supposed to say. Denmark looked down only to see that Norway had captured, god knows when he did, every one of his pieces.

"I win."

"Right," Denmark agreed in defeat as he fell back into his chair, feeling every ounce of strength in his body drained and was now just a corpse. "I'll tell Joyce to update all your medications. That's enough for today. Oh and," he closed his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"… me too."

* * *

Fear was a strange thing. It gripped the mind so powerfully that every sound became a motive of horror. A small creak of a door was the murderer's footsteps behind the corner. The bleak craw of a blackbird was the sound of death's laughter.

Norway sometimes dreamt. Except when he dreamt, his dreams did not seem to stop when he woke up. He saw things that were invisible to other people's eyes, for Norway was the sole audience in the theatre of his own mind. The voices tormented him incessantly and Norway could only fight through their presence with his nonchalance.

There were always stairs in his dreams: endless spiral stairs that went on for ever and ever. And he always had to climb them, no matter the fact that he could not even see where the stairs were headed. Sometimes he would collapse on the steps, gripping the railings so tightly that his knuckles turn white. It was usually then a flicker of shadow would blur into Norway's vision, and he would be back on his feet once more to chase after it up the twirling staircase.

Sometimes, the steps disappeared when he touched them, and he would find himself falling through space onto the cold hard floor. A blink of an eye, and he was back again at the very beginning, as if all of his previous effort and journey never existed.

Norway wanted to tell Denmark about this, about the stairs, the voices, and the endless laughter in his head. He wanted to open up and show him everything, every inch of the world that only he himself could see.

But every time he tried to bring up the subject, his tongue always seemed to forget the words. It terrified him to imagine Denmark's reaction because, despite the tough facade he always put up, Norway was nothing but a frightened patient.

* * *

…

* * *

There was a group of children around the hospital today, Norway noticed as he looked up from his usual corner in the common room after lunch. They looked around twelve to thirteen, all huddled together in a crowd following a bald middle aged teacher. The head psychiatrist, Lithuania, was with them, smiling and gesturing ever so often to those with curious eyes. They toured around the wards, hanging mostly in the court yard and near the doctor's offices. From the look on their terrified faces, including the teacher's, Norway presumed the patient rooms upstairs were restricted.

Wouldn't want some mad man to snatch one of them now would they, mused Norway with a sarcastic smile.

Curiosity got the best of him as the group of kids continued to move down the hall and heading toward the auditorium. Norway stood up quietly and followed them. Technically, he was allowed to wander around certain places inside the campus during the free period after lunch but he was precautious nevertheless. Even though his quiet nature and relatively violent-free behaviour placed him as one of the better ones than majority of the other patients, his often-cold smirks and sarcastic remarks did not seem to win the heart of many nurses. Most of them just watched him from a distance, making sure he wasn't hurting himself or anybody else. The ones that did approach him at occasions, as Norway had find out later, only wanted to suck up to Denmark.

He followed the group of students as they shuffled into an auditorium. It seemed like there was a workshop prepared for them in this field trip. His thin hospital slippers barely made a sound with the hard tiled floor as he walked. He did not dare to actually follow them inside the room, so he settled with just standing outside the door instead, peering through a small crack that was just wide enough to see and hear everything.

The chairs and tables had already been set up for the children's arrival. Each seat had a thick booklet resting on it. A row of psychologists sat on a bench next to the podium on the stage. A few he recognized but there were many he didn't.

Norway almost choked when he saw Denmark's face among them.

Lithuania walked toward him and whispered something in his ears, Denmark nodded, and a wide grin broke on his face. Norway silently wondered what he was smiling about.

He looked as he always did, confident and at ease. Compared to some of the nervous fidgeting doctors sitting beside him, Denmark looked utterly and completely at home. He had a relaxing atmosphere around him, one of his hand rested coolly in the pockets of his dark suit while he other was at his neck, unconsciously loosening the tie he was wearing.

Handsome? Of course not. Dashing? Okay, maybe a bit.

As the students began to quiet down, Lithuania made his way to the podium, beginning the opening speech by mentioning some of the goals the facility had tried to achieve. He mentioned patient care, and the careers in the field of mental health. Then he gestured to the row of doctors next to him and handed away his mike.

America was the first of the doctors to speak and within seconds, he had captured the undivided attention of his preteen audience. They laughed when he made jokes, frowned when he mentioned the perception society had on the mentally ill, smiled when he spoke of hope in the future of psychology, and clapped louder than ever when he stepped down and resumed his seat on the bench.

There was a captivating quality that both America and Denmark shared so fiercely, and that was charisma. Because they were just handsome enough, innocent enough, and born talkers. They could pace through life as a walk in the park with the people around them worshiping the very ground they step on.

The speakers after America could not live up to him, for they were quiet and boring and boring and they completely bored the audience with their monotone voice and fancy terminologies. Many of the kids had started chattering among themselves, tearing pages off of their thick packages and folding them into birds and airplanes. The teachers looked helpless and frustrated. Norway secretly smiled as he remembered his own years of school.

A light bell interrupted Norway of his thoughts, which meant that the free period for him had ended. Mandatory group therapy and the afternoon sessions were to begin shortly. If he did not go, it would go into his records as one more tick mark of misbehaviour.

Norway did not give a damn.

He was waiting to see what Denmark would present.

* * *

When Denmark first heard that he was to speak in a workshop for a group of bratty middle school kids, he was at loss. To be completely honest, he sucked at public speaking. Everybody always thought he would be great, but in actuality, he sucked big time. It wasn't so much the stage fright because that, he had none of. It was the preparation and the practice that he did not favour so much.

The topic he was supposed to deliver related to his field but other than Norway, he almost had no real experience in the territory of hallucinations and delusions. None of the books he had read had complete explanations. He understood that Norway could hear voices, but of what and how often were questions left unanswered, especially with Norway's _amazing_ cooperation.

Lithuania had told him since the beginning of the workshop that Norway was watching from the door. And out of the corner of his vision, Denmark could see him. It was rather cute he thought, for the usual quiet Norwegian to be eavesdropping behind a crack with curious eyes.

The podium he stood behind was clearly made for those that were shorter than him. Denmark found himself having to bend down slightly just to rest his wrists comfortably on it. Before speaking, he scanned the audience slowly, taking into view of the fifty or so kids who clearly looked bored out of their mind. His eyes lingered a second longer at the door, though he could not see the Norwegian clearly, just the thought of his presence made him feel slightly more relaxed.

"The biggest difference between mental illness and a physical wound," he began, "is the fact a physical wound is something you can understand easily. You see the blood and the gash and you can immediately associate it with pain. Mental illness on the other hand, is something that occurs in a person's mind. It's there, but we can never fully comprehend it.

"Schizophrenia is a type of mental disorder that causes breaks from reality. Patients I've seen do actually hear voices and they could create very intricate worlds inside their minds. It all may sound like nonsense to us, crazy talk, but to them, it's very real. They feel real pain, and experience real fear, regardless how absurd they may sound. Hearing voices is a very common symptom, along with seeing things that are not there. Look around you, what would you say if I told you that the person sitting next to you doesn't exist and you're simply imagining them?"

A low ripple of murmurs echoed through the crowd, there were some laughter, as well as comments of concern. Denmark waited until the room was quiet before continuing, a small smile lingered on his face when he saw that most were attentive now.

"The truth is, most patients suffering from schizophrenia are aware of their abnormal hallucinations. They are scared, confused, and frustrated. When what's real and what's not start to blur together, even the strongest of us can break down. The common misconception is that people suffering from mental illness often throw fits of violence. That, I guarantee, cannot be more wrong. While there are times where unintentional violence does break out, most mental health patients are victims. Because we think they are weird and different from us, we isolate them, we pick on them, and we call them names. This is why most people rather suffer alone than step forward and get help.

"When I talk with my patients, I really do try to _talk _to them." Denmark did not know how much he could say without breaking the privacy code but he did want to make a point. "I want them to open up and let me into the world they built for themselves. It takes time and effort, of course, but I found that it can be truly effective once they do begin to talk. Because that really is the starting point to getting better, to face the fear with the thought that someone else is there supporting them."

He glanced at the door before continuing, where he knew the Norwegian was standing, and flashed a small smile.

* * *

Norway left the auditorium running, as fast and far as his feet could take him. His chest was burning and his eye watered from exhaustion. The hem of his too large hospital pants made it difficult for him to move quickly, and as a result, he fell onto the floor in a scrambled mess, scraping his elbow along the way.

Still, he ran.

It wasn't until he got to his room all the way up in the residential building did he finally stop, clutching his chest in heaves of breath. And before he could forget that smile, he grabbed his pencil from his little hiding place under a chipped floorboard and began to sketch. The paper was of bad quality, the scrap ones the nurses use to jot down observations of patients during group therapy. He stole a stack a few weeks ago from the recycling bin, and had been using them to draw ever since.

In the dim light of the afternoon sun pouring in through dark curtains, Norway created marks of shapes and shadows on paper. The lines entangled and formed a rough, but incredibly accurate drawing of a man. The man's eyes were light and piercing, startling even in the coarse outlines of a dull pencil. Under the artist's guide, he began to breathe life in his dark suit and wild hair.

This wasn't Norway's first drawing of Denmark. In fact, it started that day at the roof top and this was probably one of the many dozens he kept hiding between the mattresses. It came when he least expected it, the overwhelming feeling of simply wanting to capture a segment of time, or a second of his expression. When it happened, he could not deny himself, and sketches over sketches formed beneath his talented fingers. It always had to be drawn immediately after, because Norway was a closet perfectionist, and nothing mattered more than to recreate the Dane exactly as he was in the moment.

* * *

A/N: My Psychology class actually did get to visit a mental hospital downtown Toronto a few weeks ago. We got to listen to a few schizophrenic patients which I thought was really cool because some of the them, you can't tell at all that they have schizophrenia. I guess it really shows how much society and media can influence our perceptions.

Reviews are love~


	9. Eight

****First of all, holy crap, I'm so sorry. This was wayyyyyyyyyyyy too late and I have no one to blame but myself (though school and life kinda had some responsibility for that too).

I want to promise that the next update would be faster but I don't want to break any promises so I can't do that. BUT I WILL TRY!

Thank you for all the reviews and loves. This story really isn't the same without you guys. 3

And I apologize in advance for any general crappiness, especially grammar (though my style kinda died too). In my defence, I just spent 5 weeks in Quebec at a French only camp so my English is all jumbled up right now. D:

Sorry for the super long rant. I usually don't like author's notes being long but I just haven't been on here for so long and there's just so many things I want to say and okay I'll shut up now.

* * *

**Chapter VIII**

_Blond hair mixed with rain and sweat, along with tangled limbs in the grass and breathless kisses and the smell of autumn leaves and he can't see anything but those gorgeous eyes ( deep and pretty and blue and damn were they always that bright?)_

_He tangled his fingers in those messy blond locks._

_Closecloseclose._

_Closer._

Norway was blinded. He couldn't hear, he couldn't breathe. But it was the good kind of blindness, the kind that took you high above the ground and gave you nothing but a sweet blissful white.

A white blindness in a recurring dream.

He allowed his mind to wonder, to wrap his desperate fingers around empty blankets on nights like these and let the blindness take him away. The higher he went the harder he crashed. And to be completely truthful, Nor always hated falling.

(Especially in love.)

* * *

Moment after moment, it seemed like nothing was changing. But Norway realised that one day you turn around, and the whole world was suddenly different.

* * *

"What is this?"

"Art therapy darling," Denmark grinned, motioning to the group of solemn looking patients scattered around big round tables. They were in the common room today, instead of the usual office. "It's a new strategy I'm trying."

"Why?"

The Dane laughed loudly, drawing more attention to the two of them than Norway would've liked. "Shouldn't I be the one asking questions?" he joked as he flashed the Norwegian one of his brightest grins. "Because drawing is cool annnnnd," Norway found himself being pushed toward one of the big tables against his will, "it'll give you a chance to express your feelings. Now I know you're not so good at that verbally, so I want you to do it through art."

To that, Norway raised an eyebrow. "What if I don't want to?"

Denmark looked at him as if he just said the funniest thing in the world. "I don't think you have a choice darling. Trust me, it'll be fun." And with that he turned Norway around and gave him one of those dopey yet unbelievably sincere looks (the ones Norway swore to never fall for and he didn't, mind you, because that would be irrational of him and Norway was anything but irrational). "C'mon," he grabbed the Norwegian's hand, "I'll do it with you."

In a matter of seconds, his fingers were enclosed in the Dane's warm ones. And Norway cannot help but feel so stupidly safe with his hand being held so tightly. Denmark turned around when he saw that the Norwegian was not moving under his pull. And for a brief moment, their eyes caught up with each other, blue contrasting blue; one as perplexing as the ocean and one bright like the morning sky. A blush crept its way onto Norway's cheeks as he tore his hand away from the Dane.

"I can walk myself."

A little surprised at the sudden movement, Denmark gave a little shrug and smiled, "Whatever suits you the best."

On top of each table was a scatter of drawing utensils. "Pick your weapon," The Dane gestured, blue eyes energized and expectant. To be honest, Norway felt at ease with art supplies, a type of affection that could only be paired with familiarity coursed through his body. Slightly excited, the Norwegian picked up a paintbrush. Not only because he enjoyed painting, but because it'd been so long since he touched one and he missed the feeling of watery sticky paint on his fingertips.

Denmark fancied himself with a box of crayons, which Norway thought was too fitting of a decision. A child's tools chosen by a child.

The Dane caught the look Norway shot at his preference. Mistaking it for something else, he jokingly defended himself. "Hey man, don't discriminate against the crayons." Just for emphasis, he added, "I'm a beast with these."

Fighting back a smile, Norway began to walk toward one of the empty tables. The anticipation of being able to draw turned him bolder than ever. "I sure hope so," he said uncharacteristically as he looked back at Denmark mid step, "because I can get wild when it comes to painting." His expression was as blank as ever but not even an idiot could miss the devious spark in those pretty blue eyes.

The box of crayons in Denmark's hands slipped out of the man's fingers and landed on the floor with a soft thud. Even without turning around, Norway could feel the shocked look on the psychiatrist's face. It was revenge for trying to hold his hand.

"… What did you say?"

* * *

"It's been six weeks already, Su-san."

"Hm?"

"Six weeks," Finland repeated as his fingers trailed over the marked calendar, lost in thought. "Our visit to Nor is coming up."

"…R'ght."

* * *

Inwardly beating himself for not taking Norway to art therapy sooner, Denmark was seriously enjoying this more than he should.

Much more than he should.

The first half an hour had been a contest between the two of them. With Denmark spouting out random topics like "Draw something cool", they competed to see who could produce the best work with the least time. But the Dane had long given up on that, as winning against Nor was simply a lost cause. The man was too good. As much as Denmark recognised the ingenuity in his own work, to deny Norway's talent would be completely absurd.

So now he just watched, watched as the Norwegian move the brush across paper with extreme familiarity and fluidity. Every stroke marked precision and skill, etched with repeated practice and undeniable talent. With every ticking second, Denmark lost a bit more of himself in the spiral of colours.

And he kept his eyes on the paper obviously, not on the unlawfully attractive artist. Peeks didn't count of course.

"Wow," the Dane praised with a sharp intake of breath, scrambling for a fitting word of praise. "Just… Wow. Have you ever taken lessons?"

At first, Norway seemed too focused to reply. But after a while, he spoke, voice somewhat far away. "I did when I was younger, mainly because Ice liked my art."

"Why don't you draw Ice for me."

Norway's hands froze in mid air and Denmark just knew they were going to have another one of those arguments. "What?" A drop of wet paint dripped unceremoniously onto the paper.

"I know you're capable of something like that." Taking the initiative, Denmark took a step closer and forced eye contact with the Norwegian despite unwillingness from the latter party. At the close proximity, he could see the shadow of Nor's long eyelashes on his cheeks, adding dynamic to the pale skin. And that was definitely not his own heart because there was no way it could be beating that fast. "Draw your brother for me."

"I don't want to."

"It wasn't a request."

Norway fought back a low grumble. Crossing his arms in front of his chest like an unsatisfied child, he pointed out the obvious, "You can't make me."

"And I don't want to." The Dane's voice was soft, almost pleading. Settling for a compromise, he added, "You don't have to draw him, just draw something that reminds you of him."

"I can't."

Fighting back a groan, Denmark knew from experience (too much experience if he might add) that it took a lot more than words to break down the Norwegian's persistence. Without thinking, he grabbed those arms and forced the stubborn man to listen. Norway looked like he was about to flinch at the movement but stood his ground at the last second.

The room was suddenly so very quiet and whatever argument the Dane came up with died in his throats.

The unexpected closeness took them both off guard and Denmark abruptly had a wild desire to just press their foreheads together so Norway couldn't focus on anyone but him.

_And while he was at it, why not lean forward until they were just a kiss's distance away from each other._

Stop.

Stop it.

_Everything stopped as he pressed against those soft lips._

Denmark gritted his teeth forcefully as he froze in place, lost in his own imagination. Since when did he feel that way about the Norwegian? Since when did it take almost all of his willpower just to remain still in his presence? Norway must be some sort of magician because he felt completely under his spell. Every touch had tension, and they shocked the Dane with electricity and heat. It riled up a burning sensation inside of him and all he wanted to do was feel the Norwegian under his fingertips.

"Denmark," a cool voice snapped the confused psychiatrist back to reality. "How can I draw with you holding my arm like that?"

Only then did the Dane realise how hard he was gripping Norway, his strength leaving faint trails of red marks on the pale skin. Almost stumbling back, he dropped the other's arm as if it were hot coal and stared at the Norwegian with widened eyes.

Norway was saying something else, most likely something important as he usually barely speaks at all but Denmark really couldn't hear anything except for his own rapid heart. His fingers curled together, tight enough for his knuckles to turn white and for his fingernails to leave a mark in his palm.

"I- I'm sorry." Never again.

"It's alright."

Watching Nor rub his arms with a slight grimace, Denmark decided he would never lose that much control ever again, because he simply could not imagine the consequences of stepping over that barrier. It was a delicate relationship, Norway and him, surpassing beyond the normal doctor patient association and into something much more complicated. And as much as his heart claimed otherwise, Denmark told himself that just friendship was enough for him.

**...**

In the end, much to the Dane's satisfaction, Norway did cave in to his relentless begging about drawing Iceland. Though the picture he drew was next to useless in leading him to a better understand of the Norwegian.

Nor had drawn a penguin (or something else but Denmark couldn't remember the name of it). Apparently, it was his brother's favourite toy.

"He used to carry it around all the time when he was little." Norway had said.

"And did that impact you and your interpretation of Iceland in any way?"

"No."

"Has it ever influenced your ability to think coherently?"

"No."

"Have you ever experienced any delusions or dreams regarding your brother where this penguin was the center of focus?"

"Puffin. And no."

After a roundabout of questions, Denmark had gave up and tucked the little drawing away in his trouser pocket as a little souvenir for the day.

* * *

His brow furrowed in sweat as he pushed his way through the crowded audience. Taking a seat near the back, Denmark settled himself with a slight grunt as he prepared for the lecture. One of his hands reached unconsciously to his tie to loosen it with a downward pull (man did he hate wearing one of those).

A typical psychology workshop such as this was quite the common for the Dane as his profession was all about continuous learning. Today's guest speaker was some famous German guy. Looking down at the little pamphlet given to him at the door, Denmark knew the real reason he came to the lecture. The topic was patient interaction and by god did he need some actually decent interaction with Norway. Purely professional interaction of course, the Dane added as an afterthought, because anything else would be out of the question, not that he was thinking of anything else.

The lights soon dimmed and a strong spotlight diverted his attention to the front. As the crowd hushed to silence, a man stepped on stage. Crisp blond hair neatly gelled to the back, Denmark quietly mused to himself that the speaker looked a lot younger than he expected.

The man started by introducing himself – a mature and respected graduate of his profession. On so many levels, Denmark and he were different. The man seemed to be solemn and collected, undoubtedly a serious individual when it came to his work. The Dane on the other hand, was lighthearted and cheerful, blundering himself into situations with good intentions and empty strategies. Optimism was not a bad thing, Denmark told himself. But he could not help but wonder if Nor's progress would be any different if this German was his doctor.

There were things Denmark wanted to change about his character. He just wasn't sure how much he could change without changing himself.

* * *

His reflection came off as a little startling to him.

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, Norway gazed expressionlessly at the mess the mirror claimed to be himself. Dark circles under his eyes, sallow cheeks, and hair a lot longer than he would've liked. Tentatively, he reached out and touched the glass, feeling its cool surface under his fingertips.

He had lost weight too.

A lot of weight.

Norway had always been the healthy kind of slim. But now, as he looked with empty eyes, his fingers with their boniness and pale skin bore almost no difference to those of a skeleton.

_All because of love?_

Truth be told, he was a little scared of how much love could do to a person, could take them in its grasp and torture them until they lost every bit of themselves. And he _did _love Iceland, with everything. Norway decided that he would love him forever, just him, no matter what his heart said otherwise about a stupid psychiatrist with the brightest smiles and bluest eyes.

Because that was the only way he could maybe forgive himself.

* * *

"I simply cannot stress how important it is to be mindful of details." The speaker on stage put his palm down on the podium for emphasis. Denmark looked on with sleepy eyes. At this rate, he mused, half the audience would be asleep (though in reality he was the only one fighting to keep his eyelids open).

"Sometimes, what does not make sense to us only feels that way because it is a small part of the big picture."

_I swear this guy has the most boringest voice in the world._

"It's crucial to get into the patients' heads and see exactly what they are seeing. Because whether it is a fit or a smile, all are clues that can aid us in their recovery."

_That doesn't work for me. Norway barely smiles or throws fits. Now that I think of it, he seems kind of like a robot. Except for last time when he was drawing though, he looked so focused it was adorab- admirable._

"Interact with them as much as you possibly can and pay attention for repeated words or conducts. Observe your patient in a group and see how they behave."

_I did all of that. In groups, he just stands there with his arms crossed doing nothing. _

"Constantly ask yourself whether there can be a possible reason behind an action. Does your patient enjoy certain activities? Could there be a reason behind that enjoyment?"

_He does like painting. And that's only because Ice liked his drawings when he was little. He's good at chess too for the same reason. Now that I think about it, the two must've been really close when Ice was small. But they're like, more than five years apart. Huh._

"In many cases, there is something the patient holds dear to them, whether that be an object, a moral, or a person. Many of the times, much of the patient's behaviour will reflect upon that."

_Norway values Ice, that's without a question. When I asked him to draw something, he drew Ice's favourite toy when he was young._

"Notice a pattern in your patient-"

_Chess… art lessons… toy…_

"-and that will probably be all the information you need to help him."

_All of these things are about when the two were little. _

"Patient interaction is all about communicating in the conversation-"

_But Ice was seventeen when that accident happened. Certainly not that young…_

"-as well as keeping an observing perspective in the sidelines."

Denmark's eyes widened, all of the sleepiness from before vanished without a trace. Slowly he reached down to his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, his souvenir from yesterday. The puffin Nor drew in all of his dried-paint perfection stared at the Dane with expressionless eyes. And all of a sudden, something the Norwegian had said in one of their first few therapy sessions struck him with full force.

"_It's my responsibility to take care of him."_

Suddenly the world was too clear and in sharp focus. This was it. Denmark was almost completely sure. Everything finally seemed to click into their places. Desperately trying to remember every single one of their conversations about Ice, Denmark realized that the Norwegian never seemed to mention their recent activities. Their childhood days were the only thing constantly on his tongue. There was no doubt about it. Norway still saw Iceland as a child and for that accident, he must've took it on himself for everything.

Sometimes, the mind can't handle that much responsibility.

It was the breakthrough Denmark had sought after for six weeks. There was just one more question that needed to be asked until he was completely certain of the Norwegian's withdrawal. Rising abruptly from his seat, Denmark ignored the curious stares that came his way as he made a mad dash to the door.

"Hey Nor," Denmark whispered to himself as he sprinted through the parking lot like a madman, hair a tousled mess due to the wind. "how old is Iceland in your dreams?"

* * *

Thank you for reading~


	10. Nine

**Chapter IX**

There used to be a little beach by their summer cottage in a little town several years into Norway's past, back when his parents still lived together. He remembered walking into its waters in the mornings when the sky was a cold grey and the world was not quite awake yet. Each time he dug his toes into the damp sand, the waves would wash over his footprints. How quickly he could be erased, Nor used to think; a careless motion of the tide and gone he was like time.

Sometimes Ice would join him, little brother with big brother. He must've only been six by then, Norway deducted in his head, for the little boy was barely at the Norwegian's shoulders. The morning always lost its serene quality with Iceland around, for the child's laughter would violate the world's silence.

"How long do you think it'll take to swim to the other side?" Ice would ask him, tipping his toes as if a few more inches would grant him the view to the ocean's end.

"I don't know," Norway admitted. "Probably a while."

"I wouldn't want to go to the other side anyways," Ice had said back then. Norway remembered clearly because he had slipped his tiny hands into his brother's bigger ones. And some seconds later, his cheeks had pulled up into a bright smile and the gap of a missing baby tooth accentuated his innocent laugh, "I don't ever want to leave you Nor."

And the Norwegian would smile back, their hands intertwined tightly under the morning sky.

Norway wondered if that was how memories fade, because despite the child's laughter, he could no longer remember the reason behind his own smiling face.

…

"_I don't ever want you to leave either Ice."_

* * *

Truth be told, Denmark had rarely visited the upper level of the residence building. Even on night duties, he mostly stayed on the common floor. The foreign environment was causing him some slight unease as he searched for a familiar face.

There were only a few minutes left before Norway's group therapy ended for the night. Theoretically, he could wait until their next day's session but Denmark had hoped to see him before curfew. Some things must be done in haste.

Norway's room was one of the further ones down the endless hall; a small and dingy room to accommodate for both everything and nothing – an empty shell of a living space trying to pass off as a temporary home. File in hand, Denmark leaned against the door gently, expecting to wait for his patient's return. To his surprise however, the door creaked open.

The lock had been tempered with.

Making a mental note to report it to maintenance, Denmark stepped in. His better judgments told him to stay put and wait outside but curiosity ultimately got the best of him. It would be a good idea anyways to examine how he lived, the Dane justified to himself; it was his job to explore every aspect of the Norwegian's life.

The room was, as expected, nothing short of military perfection. The creamy white blankets and bed sheets were tucked neatly in place without a crease in sight. Hospital standard paintings adorned the walls with its cheap wooden frames and pointless still-lifes. The curtains were tightly shut, as if the occupant was determined to isolate himself from any traces of the outside world. Frowning, Denmark walked over to the windows and drew them open in one swift motion so that the room was suddenly bathed in a warm orange glow of the evening sunset. Raising a slight eyebrow, Denmark mused to himself that Norway, like many other artists, had probably painted many sunsets in his life. The man had sharp eyes and a talented hand. Denmark knew that under his cold exterior bored a creative artist.

He also wondered if the Norwegian realised that he was more beautiful than any art work he had seen.

Walking over to the bed, Denmark settled himself down comfortably near the wooden headboard to wait. The mere emptiness of the barren room was putting him slightly on edge. It contrasted sharply with his own house – for the Dane liked to garnish his living areas with bizarre furniture and fancy adornments (some of which others would denote as unnecessary). Decorations helped him to compartmentalize, to separate the unfortunate and miserable things he saw at work with the happenings of his own life. Someone had once told him that he would be perfect as a psychiatrist – his bottomless bucket of strength and happiness were capable of drowning out any sort of pain he encountered – that he would never let his work affect his own emotions.

It wasn't true, Denmark realized now. He could not isolate his emotions, for time had a way of blending things together. Given enough years, what he did for work became a fabric of what he was as an individual. Each person he treated, each case he reviewed, every and all of it were forever etched into him, and each day he carried its weight like an invisible scar of someone else's story.

Lost in a train of thoughts, Denmark leaned back unconsciously in search for support from the headboard. The bed creaked slightly under his weight, an understandable noise considering the forever-underfunded status of hospital residences. Except it wasn't actually the noise that bothered Denmark, it was the feel of an uneven bump protruding discreetly through the sheets, as if someone had stuffed something in between the flimsy mattresses.

_What the -_

Jumping up in surprise, the worst of the situation came to Denmark's mind first. _A bomb? No, it can't be. A knife? No don't be ridiculous. Oh no, what if it's a radioactive insect? Is Norway some spy terrorist with super powers?_ His hand ran across the sheets lightly, feeling the shape of the object under his fingertips. Deciding to find out the truth for himself, the Dane warily untucked the bed sheets. With one hand firmly holding onto the bed frame, the other lifted the top mattresses in one motion. To his surprise, it was only a small stack of loose leaf paper, some of which appears to be old recycled reports. _What was Norway doing with old reports?_

Intrigued, the blonde reached under for them, his clumsy hands fumbling with the sheets. It wasn't until he took a clear look at the papers did he realize that scribbled on the back of the old reports were actually drawings, lots and lots of drawings.

Drawings of Iceland, of the buildings, of the trees, the grass, the patients, the nurses; Of everything.

Including Denmark.

Many and many drawings of Denmark.

Out of the pile of doodles and sketches, recurring images of the Dane appeared over and over again in the mess of pencil and ink. There he was in the downstairs commons room, talking to a staff member. And him in his office, smiling and laughing at something beyond the scope of the page; or him giving a speech in the auditorium, dressed in a tailored suit that never really quite fitted him and a silly vintage tie that fitted him too well. It was like sifting through an album he never knew existed of him – an album full of pictures that captured, rather than the Kodak moments, the unnoticed seconds that made up everyday life, _his _life.

Denmark could feel his heart beating faster, and his palm unnaturally moist. A lump had formed in his throat and - _god how did it suddenly become so hot and so freaking hard to breathe?_ A nervous laugh broke through him without consent from his brain and his legs shook slightly. Reaching toward a chair to stabilize himself, the Dane realised that he could no longer see clearly. Or rather, he could see too clearly, but not of the right things. He wanted to see Norway, to touch him, to hold him, to lose every bit of himself in the Norwegian's pretty blue eyes and then instantly regenerate again to whatever Norway needed him to be.

In his state, the usually alert Dane did not hear the approaching footsteps, or the sound of the door being pushed open. It wasn't until Norway spoke did Denmark became aware his patient's presence

"What are you doing in my room?

Overwhelmed with emotions and surprised by the sudden voice, Denmark looked up with nothing but pure confusion in his eyes. Posing by the door stood Norway, a scrutinizing expression daunting his features. His arms crossed over his chest, the Norwegian's eyes widened slightly when he saw the drawing in Denmark's hands. A mixture of embarrassment and pain coloured his face only for a brief second as he stepped forward into the room, but his hands, now balled in tight fists at his sides, gave away his nervousness. "… you're not supposed to find those."

And the Dane responded in the only way he deemed acceptable for the moment. The picture of his own face still in hand, he made a quick run toward the door. With the initial intent of visiting Norway completely out the window, the blonde psychiatrist dashed, ironically, like an insane maniac down the hallway he came from, pushing past anyone or anything that was remotely in his way.

He did not know where he was going, nor did he care at the very moment. All his focus was presently concentrated on getting away, to run as far as possible. Because he knew from the second he looked into the Norwegian's eyes in that room that if he didn't leave, he would've lost it completely.

He would've kissed Norway.

* * *

"Sve, can you please get the potatoes, oh, and get the butter out of the fridge too while you're at it, I want it to be at room temperature before I – Sve, Sve? Are you even listening to me?"

Unaware of his wife's callings, the Swede stood motionlessly in the living room. His eyes focused intently at a circled spot on the calendar. A mixture of emotions whirled around inside his head as he stared down the date. Despite his never-changing stoic expression, Sweden was actually quite an expressive man. He could feel happiness, sadness, and fear like everyone else – he just had stiff facial muscles.

And right now, under the red glare of the marked box, he felt nothing but apprehensive.

"Sve, what's the matter?"

Slightly startled by Finland's sudden appearance at his side, the large man took a step backwards. He opened his mouth to speak but decided against it last minute. Instead, Sweden pointed at the calendar, a gesture that explained better than he could've ever done with words. "It's n'xt week."

The Finn's eyes followed his husband's long fingers to the circled date and suddenly he understood. Resting his hand reassuringly on the man's tense arm, Finland smiled brightly. "Would you look at that, it's been a while hasn't it?" When the stoic man did not respond, Fin continued, "Don't you want to visit Norway? I miss him."

Sweden nodded but the wariness shadowed his eyes, "What 'f he's not b'tter?"

"You have to have faith Sve," Finland softened. "He's getting the help he needs."

Something broke a little in the Finn's heart when the shadow did not fade from his husband's face. And Finland knew it was stupid of him to think the way he did but rationality rarely had a reign over emotions. Norway was special to Sweden – always a little overprotective beyond the scope of simple friendship. But Finland wasn't the worrying type, or the jealous type, and beyond anything, he cared about Norway very much too. So choosing to trust instead of worry, the Fin pulled Sweden down into a soft kiss. "Nor's a lot stronger than you give him credit for Sve."

The compassion in Finland's voice brought Sweden back, way back to a chilly day in November when the two of them went hiking in the mountain woods. Sweden remembered being exhausted and out of breath when they reached the top, but Fin – like an endless bundle of energy – simply pointed to the view and sighed in awe. "Wouldn't it be amazing?" Sweden remembered the younger man whisper as he looked down the beautiful cliff at a never-ending sight of trees and sky, "wouldn't it be amazing if we got married and did this every day?"

So Sweden decided to take him up on that offer, actually went to the store the very next day for a ring; and nothing had ever felt so right when he slipped it onto his wife's finger – for Finland had the spark of life.

"Are you still worried?"

Finland's concerned voice brought Sweden back to reality. Shaking his head, Sweden pulled a slightly surprise Finn into a tight embrace. "No," he said quietly. " I tr'st ya."

Melting into the bigger man's arms, Finland asked quietly for confirmation, "So we're going to see him next week?"

"N'xt week."

* * *

The lights in the bar were too bright, and the music too loud. But Denmark welcomed the distraction with open arms. Sitting at a lone corner at the front table, the stool creaked loudly under his weight as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The room was too warm, his body was too warm, and _Jesus am I sweating?_

Something about the alcohol running through his bloodstream was making him unable to think, and Denmark was only too glad for the side effect. His thoughts terrified him, and his fantasies came in two stages: the first was to run to Norway and kiss him with all of his being and the second was to punch himself in the face for thinking such a thing to begin with. It was only a couple of pictures, Denmark mused, it couldn't mean anything. Norway was an artist, and Denmark was nothing but a subject of interest to him from an expert standpoint. Besides, he couldn't want Norway. He just couldn't. It wasn't right, it wasn't professional, it wasn't realistic and to be honest, all he really wanted was to _hold him and love him and –_

"Hit me!"

Slamming his glass on the table, Denmark shouted loudly to the terrified bartender. Clearly, he was still too conscious for his own good and while the Dane was celebrated for his tolerance in college, he silently cursed the talent today. The young employee behind the bar opened his mouth to argue but decided against it last second under Denmark's death glare. The hard liquor burnt a fiery path down the Dane's throat and for a moment, the world became a blank blissful black.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

Norway sat quietly in his room as he often did when he was alone. Except today, he sat on the floor instead of the bed, for the latter of the two served as an uncomfortable reminder for what had happened earlier. The nurse had come by after Denmark's hysterical flee from his room but he had assured her that everything was alright.

He was calm, so calm that it terrified even himself.

There were no voices tonight, and for a brief second, Norway wished that they would come back just so he would not feel so alone tonight. The curtains were drawn tightly shut again, but a sliver of the moon's shine managed to pour in through the crack. Slowly, Norway raised his arm to examine his illuminated hand in the dark. Long pale fingers stretched in an almost ghost-like fashion above him. In the dim moonlight, Norway marvelled at his talented hand and their incredible ability to capture life within fibres of cellulose with ink and artistic imagination. But tonight, they brought nothing to him but guilt and confusion, like a weapon accessory to a murder. So the Norwegian balled his hand tightly and with a surprising amount of peace and composure, he slammed his knuckles into the hard flooring.

A loud crack followed by a sharp pain shot up his arm and Norway was amazed for its therapeutic effects. For a brief second, the Norwegian could redirect his focus. Why did he draw all those pictures of Denmark? Norway did not know but in that short window of pain, his brain busied itself too much with the injury in his knuckles to care. So quietly, Norway repeated his actions, slamming his hand onto the floor a second time, a third time, a fourth, until he lost count or until he no longer felt joint with his fingers, whichever came last.

Exhaustion eventually took hold of him so he closed his eyes to rest. In his dreams, he was holding a toddler Iceland. Except his arms were by his sides rather than wrapped around his brother. And someone was holding him instead of the other way around. The someone was actually much larger, with golden hair, and a warm, mischievous grin that was too big for his face. The man did not resemble Iceland at all but Norway reassured himself that dreams were meant to be ambiguous, that in no dimension could the stranger possibly be Denmark because he had never felt so safe and so right in those arms.

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A/N: This chapter took me two years to right so y'all better appreciate -*shot*

(I'm so sorryy, soooo sorrry and I want to promise the next update is coming but I have nothing written for it yet so I can't promise anything. And I also apologize if my writing style changed/gotten worse/reads like shit now. I've been writing nothing but research papers and lab reports so if things seem mechanical, it's because I've been brainwashed by science.

And thank you guys all for taking the time to read this story. I really do read all the reviews and love all of your comments and thoughts even though I seem like an emotionless jerk for not updating in two years but better late than ever righ-*shot again*)


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